Lines Of Sight

A horizon of breakers screening out
southbound tanker, a coast smoky with spume.
At the sea wall, geysers like poltergeists
deluge the path; the pier reverberates with
shock waves swingeing century-old piles.
A moon's cauldron of rosin oil and coal dust
glosses the estuary, the wings of its
great beast's back stretched to enfold each shore.
All boundaries are fictions: a point these swifts
underscore, hunting a wingspan from the surface,
tying the watcher's gaze in knots, stringing it
along — weavers of invisible lace,
each chance meeting with peers a study in
the flirtatious art of not touching.