Prout’s Neck

This poem appears in the Spring 2015 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.

On the first day of spring, Winslow 
Looked from the window to resurrect 
His imagination’s unpainted canvases.  

Maybe a low tide, small runnels 
Rolling up across the sand, tide pools 
Holding spirits no less than hermit 
Crabs or sandpipers, dark rings about their 
Throats, all nerves tuned to alarms.  

There should be a clam-digger wading 
The mudflat, bending at intervals, 
Herring gulls at their usual squabbles.  

Pictures should look unintended, coming 
Into view and then departing, another Transparent instant when no one is looking.