Long Point Light

Long Point’s apparitional

this warm spring morning,

the strand a blur of sandy light,

and the square white

of the lighthouse–separated from us

by the bay’s ultramarine


as if it were nowhere

we could ever go–gleams

like a tower’s ghost, hazing


into the rinsed blue of March,

our last outpost in the huge

indetermination of sea.


It seems cheerful enough,

in the strengthening sunlight,

fixed point accompanying our walk


along the shore. Sometimes I think

it’s the where-we-will-be,

only not yet, like some visible outcropping


of the afterlife. In the dark

its deeper invitations emerge:

green witness at night’s end,


flickering margin of horizon,

marker of safety and limit.

But limitless, the way it calls us,


and where it seems to want us

to come. And so I invite it

into the poem, to speak,


and the lighthouse says:

Here is the world you asked for,

gorgeous and opportune,


here is nine o’clock, harbor-wide,

and a glinting code: promise and warning.

The morning’s the size of heaven.


What will you do with it?


– Mark Doty


I am posting this poem to remember a rather idyllic state of mind, one that does not come quite often, when one grows wearier by the moment, requiring the weary to understand the moment, and yet hating the weariness. So much like this poem, you can get wearier by the moment, but then the moment comes, what with you do with it?


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