for Edgar Bowers, i.m.
The clouds this night collapse with violence
Into themselves, the frothing Gulf their score,
Then rise to forge a new design, each tense
With struggle to hold form, impermanence
Their constant state. Below, the fitful shore
Endeavors to maintain a faithful line,
Establishing frail boundaries once more,
Demanding less than what it sought before.
My last night on Grand Isle, I face the brine
Of maddened crests, each salted sting the shard
Of some Great Sculptor chipping to define
From blemished stone his grandiose design.