To the Lighthouse

The no-see-em’s bite my neck as I look toward the West,
China, Japan sit quietly and unseen. The same can be said
Of the fishing boats, though closer to my stone’s throw
And all of them and the islands beyond can see the lighthouse.
The wickies who once worked here are dead and their bodies lay to rest
Farther away from the sea. All of their paper notes, logs, and books
Were perpetually damp.
Picket fences run along
The pelicans and the flowered cliffs
Watching for old Ford headlights
And unfiltered cigarettes all aglow.
Tonight we could dine in a linen heaven
And eat turtle soup and wear the skins of otters
And sleep together deep beneath the ocean
But my arms are full of groceries
Your eyes will be in someone else’s wallet photos.

The ivy can still grow at this height,
The thoughts of a narrow road in summer
In all its hillside bliss
Will remain in the humid stick
And the wearing red paint of the guest cottage.