(Salt) A LOBSTER. Once out of the box The wooden box The metal box The box, the box, the box Dragged up from the salt Things don't feel too bad And then they do And then they don't (And waves)
Wesley McNair is the Poet Laureate of Maine. His most recent books are The Words I Chose: A Memoir of Family and Poetry and Lovers of the Lost: New & Selected Poems. McNair is currently Professor Emeritus and Writer in Residence at the University of Maine at Farmington, where he directed the creative writing program and received the Distinguished Faculty Award and the Libra Professorship.
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Summer squash and snap-beans gushed all August, tomatoes in a steady splutter through September. But by October's last straggling days, almost everything in the garden was stripped, picked, decayed. A few dawdlers: some forgotten carrots, ornate with worm-trail tracery, parsley parched a patchy faded beige.
It is very high, and notched in places, so that there is the appearance to one at sea, as of seven or eight mountains extending along near each other. The summit of most of them is destitute of trees… I named it Île des Monts Déserts.
—Samuel de Champlain, 1604
When Samuel de Champlain