Late Arrival

Sherry Abaldo

Silver Glinting | Sal Taylor Kydd

Out here there is an equilibrium.
For every pleasure craft, a working vessel.
For every summer house, the ghost of a
fish house. In World War II a Nazi
submarine penetrated Frenchman’s Bay,
dropped two would-be spies off in new snow.
Tonight I’m tired. Like old times I bring
you bread and apples. Like old times I am
transfixed by the view out the plane window:
form and void, bright and dark, a thousand
tastable touchable greys that glister like a
Cocteau film. Like the one where it ends up
a love story only the guy remains a beast.
In the morning all this moonglade will be blue.