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Looking For Mark Strand
The ocean smells of expectation
as I ferry the Northumberland Strait
toward Summerside Strand.
Three miles from shore to shore
Prince Edward Isle mimics an arced
moon in horizontal northern light.
I try to possess this image whole,
try to shovel up the poetry of knowing
him in that poor north with its wrecked
wharves and vacuous warehouses.
But I find no mark of the poet
where beach brings sea into intimacy.
If life were a slanted horizon,
I’d slide down its green belly
into the brine
from which we are all born.
With the ocean’s pasture in my eyes
and fire in my mind
he’d row the boat that floats eternally
and all his light would turn
to glinting crystals.
With one hand, he’d reach
for the moon-lit salt in the air
and with the other, he’d wave.