I go on writing to the ocean
Because I’m foolish.
Ice blue as the sky.
Now what?
Old phone call
With a poet long gone.
He was an unhappy man
Who tried as best he could.
The sea outwits the pen.
Amber glow of houses.
Of clarity I know little.
Last night in the small hours I woke
To a voice:
“You used to play the guitar.”
Yes I need to be silly as I age
Mr. Dream.
I call this poem:
Man lying on his back
Under the high trees.
Planet of the Blind 