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running against a cold wind
A bleakness about the place, with the wind keen,
Dark ocean under it running like a full
Rough icy river. A bright diagonal
Of orange cloud slopes over the whole scene,
The sky below it's turning that strange pale green
Coleridge in his dejection couldn't feel
The beauty of. I think of the tall girl
Who glanced my way as I came driving in,
And again later as I began my run
And passed her with her friends, and how her presence
Filled for a time the whole place like a fragrance.
Hard going now! lungs hurting, and she long gone
And everyone else but me, the whole scene stark,
Even the cliff house windows staying dark.
and the fat one gripping
a bottle of wine
Blazing November. The wrongness of this weather's what
Makes my being here for anything all wrong, the sea
Having gone slack and pale and bland and summery,
The air since the fi rst light this morning dry and hot
And motionless. Broad day's brought everybody out.
There goes a runner threading through a family
Straggling along in street-clothes. Surfers unseeingly
Step around three elderly ladies. All tramp my holy spot.
I run on sand where multitudes lay and strolled and sat.
It's scuff ed and stale. And heading through the overused scene,
Around the last point I see alone out on the fl at,
Where the sand's newly wet, one fat girl and one lean
Briefl y link arms and dance, whirling this way and that
Over their clear, prancing refl ections in the sheen.