First Encounter

Waves bob into peaks and points

this October afternoon,

and beneath is harder sand.

Gulls swoop

the cold bay’s jetties,

dropping littlenecks to break them apart,

to feed before winter.

Concrete bleached gray, the duneside parking lot

is windswept and empty, except for

rustling clothes, cold jeans

against motionless legs rooted in docksiders. 

Hands closed in sweaty fists, pockets

of warmth against the chill.

You might read pain, an unnamed sadness.

A deteriorating

battleship rusts to ribs eight miles away.

We pushed the Indians

from here and out, but I am comforted,

these stories without “I”, life without me,

triumphs in off-

seasons.