Rye Harbor, August 27th 2005, by Mark DeCarteret

Trapped in a tidal pool, late August,
at that starless letting-up of twilight,
a tuna tested the yet unseen moon
as if sensing its pull and its whitish start,
turning towards future perfect, its fin
this titanium accessory, tensing up
as it lapped again, silently powered,
having already refused the sun and its past-
takes–its latest run of sufferings and rust,
and made even less of the water’s indifference–
its tone flattening, note by note, over time,
or the setting, those likeminded stones
with their cold stare and depth,
that unsettling algae atop most of them,
the fish opting to step it up, circling “yes” in ink
as imperceptible as these spectator’s thinking
so there was nothing left for our cameras to see
but our own flashes, half-imagined tempests.




Mark DeCarteret has appeared next to Charles Bukowski in a lo-fi fold out, Pope John Paul II in a high test collection of Catholic poetry, Billy Collins in an Italian fashion coffee table book, and Mary Oliver in a 3785 page pirated anthology.

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