Reading in Bed

by evening light, at the window, where wind blows
it’s not enough to wake with morning
as a child, the insistent urge of habit

sounds, to write a poem, to pore over one’s past
recall ultimate orders one has since doubted
in despair. Inner reality returns

of moonlight over water at Gloucester, as
fine a harbor as the Adriatic, Charles said, before the big storm
blew up to land ancient moorings, shards against sand

of memory at midnight; ah yes the dream begins
of lips pressed against yours over waves, tides,
hour-long auto rides into dawn, when time

pounds a mystery on the beach, to no death out of reach.