Crossing Over

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for Dan, Washington, DC, North Mission, 1998–2000

Sun-dappled redwood mist
      bandtails flush, wrentits call through fiery green walls.
Chattering hikers returning from the still-inaudible sea
blindly pass a doe in the ferns.
      Back at the dock
eagle-eyed Auduboners blew through like a bushtit swarm
racking up species, the kind of birding you hate
      missing the loon surfacing behind the pier
      the wandering tattler around the cove bend
            the ones you had to wait for.

At Wildcat Beach, cliff-edge tent in flame-guttering wind
      up the beach, a driftwood fire.
            Lone gull rides the horizon
            fox family darting around.
Sleep, rest sore feet, but who can say it’s over?
Beyond us out there, the impossible other shore.
Behind us the catastrophe of immortality
that drove us to the little horrors we emit like octopus ink.
      Mystery gave out
      then the wine and mushrooms.
      Sex gave out, then chastity, then property and oil
            all the achievements, all the accumulation
            all the lists, all the games, all the service
                  and finally chatter too.
End of the line now, but who can say it’s over?
From here to Japan, only ocean
      bridged by whale causeways
      myriad jeweled droplets
      each its own universe.
Lighthouse winking out there, and tanker lights.
      Cliff grass rippling a little more gently now
            in the night wind.

In the morning, whimbrel in the silent surf
      harbor seal watching offshore
      and raccoons have stolen our bread
            baby claws prying through lockbox cracks
            but who can say it’s over?
Well, you do, more or less—Sunday responsibilities
      uneasy scent I remember.
But first, around Wildcat Lake
      birdsong-throbbing thickets in August heat
            siren song reminding us that everything
            is made of sex: hand and eye
                  deer, raccoon
willet, godwit, pintail, warbler.
      fern, willow, kelp—
            rock and water, too?
And what’s sex made of?

Noonday slog back up the red-baked fire road
      sweating out body and mind.
            Jay’s feather, so blue
            “Don’t pick it up.”
Molten elements, last seaward glance from the ridge.
It hasn’t solidified yet. Sunlight subsides
      to luminous shade. Scent mosaic
            poison oak backlit as if from within
wrentits still scuffling immersed in hidden bird paths
      silky soft air.
Could you believe
      it’s always been like this . . .

You’ve gone ahead. Go ahead on.
I’ll just sit down here and watch the poison oak change color
      a little longer.
      Where are you going, little Buddha
            off to save the world?
Why not sit down with me here and save it that way?
      Who knows what might happen
      if we wait long enough.

But no.
      Not your show
            Don’t you know
            you can save the whole world and lose your soul?
But that’s the risk we’ve run since time began.
So go, walk with the immunity of God’s ministers
      the gunshot-riddled streets of Anacostia, Capitol Heights
Get it down on tape and send it back to remind us
      what horror’s made of.
      And when you find them and take them
      over the bridge that doesn’t exist anymore
just tell them, tell her
if you have to tell anyone anything
            that it hasn’t solidified yet—
the light, I mean—
      and it isn’t over.