A Description of New England

by Mark DeCarteret

A Description of New England
     “ . . . the paradise of those parts.”
                                     John Smith

It was too silent, too untold,
the sky here the same as the sea,
this color like cinder blocks —
so slow to matter, commit.
We mistook seeing for enough
of the thing, fun as it was —
single filing next to the shallows,
a detail of late fall at low tide —
maps were better cheap to teach them.

Photons still cling to these concepts
as if they were has–been poets at the dip.
Can one even be bothered with stability,
the distance between this and that moment?

Unable to wash its entire stink from my skin
I now live with these devils in relative peace.
Yes, clouds are the snuffed–out, souls–in–waiting,
the gulls continually touting the benefits of this limbo
but then what does one do with this knowledge,
especially here, where the land dwindles off,
its icy light measured in the most prolonged blinks?
There’s always the chance we’ll surrender by year’s end.
Alone with that first dream, whenever it can be managed.