[UNTITLED YULE TIDE]
on the east coast in winter above or below the tide-line
one walks in water or in mud there is no dry land i
clam holes in mud
& sand— why not
look to that like the sky—
winter fishery
tradition says clams are common property
& the flats unleasable—
birds try & fail to gyre— at least
for a while— the middle of the water is a window
the sky spangled with crows
a night body of water
serrated wrack saw wrack toothed wrack
dulse spiraled tidy into
a whole universe ii— bladderwrack
is a cunt in the granite—
textured uncertain driftlines
things aren’t always so
conscientious as to draw
their soft edges for us
we move singularly like
a liquid — soft shallows
what if instead of horizon
lines we read low
drain tides boats soft aground the middle
littoral sugar kelp woven — I will never have
enough I say to your
sleeping inscrutable shape
snow on snow snow
on snow fallow waves
find your V goose
whirl the fuck up
warm winter windows
ladybugs on them
oyster comma
oyster ear
half a conch crown
clam fan light
my oldest hears sounds that I
cannot — including the sky
the sky keeps bright
eyes on us — we
look up into the cold
the tide makes
a friction like
a song in glass
that is the tide sings
while it spins in glass iii
so deep midwinter the light turns iron
there is no end to your tongue
at this time of a winter’s day one can see
the light turn & begin to flake & burn iv
& while it’s a turn I always notice
something far away changes key
there is no perfect
line except the wrackline
which is infallible
it’s too cold to do
anything complicated
come to bed come to bed come to bed
in marginalia season—
hawkless salt-hag
the tide adds or subtracts
a causeway— a lightening
line between the deeper
blues & though I
look with adoration at these
lines for hours
nothing comes
back to me
seastruck grid of skies
a whole year— more
skies than days v
in five days I saw
at least sixty skies —
gray wool—broken orange
glass—burning—oystershell—
gray cool—boyfull—clearing blue—
mirror calm—gentle cloud commas—
whirled up storm waves—
a calendar of salt & tides
& birds scything the full sky
it took me so long to write this
it’s over — but that’s
the way with everything we
say in unison with briny
tongues— tide me
over — if you put
something in a circle— no one
will want to cross it
I don’t even know what’s good
anymore— I only know
what makes a pause— even
the smallest stop in the relentless
present tense —
wery so water to wore
weary as water on the shore vi —
the ocean told us
how we felt & who
were we to argue
—December 2020 - March 2021
i J.A. Baker, The Peregrine, “December 3rd”
ii after the work with seaweed by Jeannet Leendertse
iii after Luke Jerram’s acoustic installation / sculpture Tide
iv J.A. Baker, The Peregrine, “December 21st”
v after Mary Burger’s Skies of 2020
vi wery so water to wore is from the Harley Lyric beginning “Betwene Mersh and Averil”; the translation here is Eleanor Parker’s