Warren Woessner
Slow sun pulls long days over July. The marsh holds its breath and soaks in warm water.
ner
Today I can’t write about having a second cup of coffee or how I interrupted my wife’s dreams to retrieve the covers.
The first night in the country/I woke in the dark dark —/put my hand in front of my face/and couldn’t tell my hand/was there.
Gay Head Light
In Memoriam: Todd Follansbee
I pick what’s left
off a wave’s last edge:
blue wood bullet,
two white eyes
and brass rings.
Hooks gone.
Pop, it’s one
you could have used
and lost
like we lost you.
Something in deep
grabbed hold
would not let go —
then the line snapped
and you were gone.
— Warren WoessnerAt dusk, one by one,
hundreds of gulls fall
out of the leaden sky
onto the lake, already
beginning to close
its lid for winter.
We call them
by their names,
recognize bill color,
molt, age, species —
see everything
but living beings —
finding their spots
for the night, calling out
to kin, to neighbors.
Afloat on freezing waves,
they turn together
into the north wind.
While, on shore, wrapped
in down coats, hats and gloves,