Fathoms

Now the seasons cast their worried stones against this wall

where we're burnished gold by a drunken, sagging sun.

Here's the glow that haunts our celestial acreage, 

darkening, quickening, a knife's edge pressed against 

the trembling hands of descending dusk.

These are seawashed bones upon a foreign shore,

where sand and soot plot passages away from tumbling waves,

and pine-tops crumble like the dust they secretly 

know they are, the weight of a hawk settling with 

furious, beating wings, hazarding a view of a distant expanse. 

I am alone at last with little but light and thought to keep me,

time for few regrets and to muse upon even less, 

an outpost untroubled by spirits or more earthly concerns,

beyond the rocks, beyond the stacks of burning sulfur, 

with only the fog for companionship's sake at my table.