Fog Fold

Our ocean slams the sand under fog.
The gulls won't fish this slop,
train inland to peck trash
at Wal-Mart.

The buoys in chorus,
the light on the head rock
give bearing,
on glassy days they're quaint,
like Scripture and hymns.

A poster on the meeting board,
under plastic for the rain
that falls on the just,
and the just so,
sells a lecture on 'The Folly
of Faith' for five dollars.

Ought to draw some disgruntleds,
except for the storm.

My windbreaker wraps
my preposterous soul
against the pull of the moon,
my worn portrait of Abe Lincoln
folded in my jeans.

This side of the grave
ignores the tide,
but every sea
has another shore.

Clever won't cut it,
when the waves break
higher than a man can
stand himself.