There are weeks, whole months, when I read only the ancients.
There’s a cut off: Paracelsus is modern—he believes in the future.
I mean the dark one, the river compulsive,
A man who made clocks from string…
Time is a game played beautifully by children.
Lately this is all I can think of.
When I was very small I lived by the sea.
Nobody loved me and I wasn’t confused.
Planet of the Blind 
Hi Stephen, I got here from Bob Herz’s link. This is really poignant to me , lovely like a breaking wave or beating heart. It carries me to beaches in East Dennis where we spent summers. After a day of watching our children play in the gentle waves of Harbor Beach, I would return alone at sunset, kick off my shoes and walk in water as I watched it set. Others would leave almost as soon as the great ball disappeared, but I would stay. Then, the dramatic feisty reds and fierce yellows were inexorably transposed by lavender and purple deepening to slate and the turning tide would obliterate every evidence of invasion. Breathless, I would walk back home to night. Thank you for the poem and the memory.
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