Poem

The sea 
and the library in this town 
are close together, 

the song of water and 
the hum of reading 
are related sounds 

and the rocks and books 
stand up in autumn 
as compositions 

of devoted effort by wind 
and mind, operating 
bleakly, brightly. 

Profound volumes, 
I see you shining 
out in the bay 

turning over and over, 
blue pages, leaves, 
in a lucid sparkle, 

and concealing depths 
of doomed voyages, 
plots, sailors, 

and terse monologues, 
diaries, 
soliloquies of absorbed brine.