night poem #1

I heard a story today about a man
who worked in ports with his hands and on
docks he took ships to all the places where he knew
there would be eclipses
then he grew up and, I imagine,
sold his shells and wampum, washed
the sea water from his hair,
learned to tie a tie and walk on land
he teaches algebra now, and very few
of his high school students, who sit in rows,
can see the milky remnants of each eclipse
in the corners of his eyes
I look for it in check-out cashiers and newspaper-stand owners
sometimes. Sometimes they blink at me or nod,
or wipe away a grain of moon sand,
or tuck a strand of ocean weed behind her ear.


CDL