May 31

In the distance the foghorn
at the mouth of the Quillayute,

unseen singing oh how the eyes deceive–
like some mechanical dove

or breath above a bottle,
two hollow notes,

one in constant falling.
As the campfire dies smoke

is held in close by the damp, the ocean
lost in the whole of the night,

but out there ships pass
under a starless sky,

and all that lies beyond them
is tomorrow–