Unquenchable Ontological Thirst

We long for pure water—

the blue that looks through us

because we are bottomless—

we long for the wave’s shout of anger

on the old coast of abandoned fires.

We long for the Tyrian purples of the headland

and the torn white banners of the north wind

because our days are without a center—

we go on like damaged propeller

cavitating in the foam.

Bella Donna

The cicadas grind their teeth

under the blue roof of August,

the heat places its heavy hand on the landscape,

but you never flinch.

One breath from you

and the birches shiver,

The beach rose closes up her shop midday;

a white fog hides the dock, like the faded sheets

thrown over furniture in the great house

when the mistress goes abroad.

In sudden October,

boats rub their moorings

like horses in a stall

and even the gulls look thoughtful.

Later you grant everyone a reprieve.

The sun casts off its cover, a

glare returns to the dock.

But you glitter restlessly, back and forth

out every window.

Your smile has the iron look

of one who’s certain of her vast removal.

James Armstrong, Blue Lash (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2006). Copyright © 2006 by James Armstrong. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions (www.milkweed.org).