Fixative

A southwind turns the grass north;
A moon witholds the ocean;
So am I tethered to this woman's heart,
Her circle of love, her call

All couples walk without speaking
Near this edge; all stroll without
Picking up shells or turning
To touch with sight for reassurance,
So little is sure and less is known
Of this freedom to wake in the morning
Changed

Away from the water, the dunes,
Not so high, give way to rusty marsh,
The first forest of a continent,
First power line, first long breakwater;
We make our lives habitable
And awful, or pleasant in a way
Far worse than awful

I wish to leave, to make of myself
Another self; not clay but finest sand

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Correspondence and Permissions: James S. Oppenheim

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