THE DEFENSE

 

 

On arrive.  The ascending road from the boat

is carved like a scar in the sky-high face

of a flat-topped cliff with the port at its base,

crammed at land’s end as all the remote

and outposted towns will be, like a float

of boxes scattered aground in the space

between the sea’s edge and the rock’s embrace.

The sheen on the cliff’s face is like a coat –

 

of foil, then the sudden hills come like bowls,

cones, tables, set down on a rug of peat,

the broad bog embroidered with sequin pools.

Why this rubbish of household conceit!

 

O, the glacier has been here so lately it hurts

my heart, and I am afraid and I run –

to commonplaces, covertured

by kitchen matters, a disturbed

mother armored to avert

confusion with her wooden spoon.