The utter amazement of bedhead.

Cape Cod: A Complaint

On the edge of land
shaped like a curled, inviting

finger, I watch snails
make love without anxiety

or release. I do not
approve. The sea slumps

into me with a short
crest and a long, soft

crash. It sounds like etcetera.
It might be a promise

spoken in a language
only water knows, or

not. The only answer to that question
is that question. If only I could be

farther out on the bright Atlantic
near whales full of blubber and joile

de vivre, to flop and sing
in the recondite ocean, to be

a presence that strains it
through harp-like teeth and tastes

sugar in the salt.


- Patrick Martin