Strange I can hear the fog horn
miles away so clearly so close
and not you, so many miles away
maybe laughing in the City
where the houses touch like old men
holding each other, maybe weeping
in all the lights of it.
All the rocks touch softly
from the Rincon to Fort Ross
and we have half a moon tonight for hope.
I notice we speak mostly like madmen
in the dark, late over coffee
or at sunset or in some last
lost hopeless house of pancakes
in the still and desperate air.
I have seen the noonday devil
walking in the daylight, high
and shadowless sunlight saying
need them cakes to feed that jones.
Being a poet is the saddest thing,
to dream of the sea at Bolinas.
That and all the other cooler
places, until someone prays for you
and me in some lost and lonely room.
Since the end is never told,
I dream of the sea at Bolinas.