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He has always been poignant
but never more than now
The lives of the Saints are like this
The ordinary becomes abnormal
in such small ways
He sits on the dock holding his head
under aluminum pie plates
to prevent swallows from roosting
to frighten bird shit off the Boston Whaler
He stares into the comprehensive sea
He breathes through his neck
Four years ago he pulled one Summer by hand
all the grass in his part of the ocean
so his wife would not touch it while swimming
She has not entered the water since
She prefers to stay in the house
and take on the shape of South America
He mopes over the bald shallows
He was a food salesman and now
he has come to consider spaghetti
a sacrament for its similarities
to intestines and blood
He has begun to shuffle to keep
time from sticking to his shoes
His dog will not follow him but comes
to others yapping with its spoonful of brains
He mentioned maturity cannot happen
with any family living at home no matter
what the teeth chatter to the glass of water
He says wisdom requires loss He says
he can find no place else to live
but his body which wavers below him
on the irrelevant inflatable sea
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