Robert James Berry
The Pier at East Cape
At pier’s end
assorted rubble grows.
Ruptured lobster pots, tents of
black tarpaulin, a
sun-bled flounder that a gull’s
jabbed at.
Where dirty tides slap
the pier’s decaying stilts I sit.
This is a place to think
watch a buoy roil on the current,
the sun smoke like a cigarette ember
and stub out.
The dark’s sudden, sapphire.
Two trawlers lit like candelabra
move into the reach.
Hear the growling swell.
The creaking pier
lost in black behind me.
Page(s) 25
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