H.D. at Point Pleasant Beach


1906

All evening the eelgrass slaps
its rough embroidery down


at the wrack-line, at damp sockets,
the moon-snails’ methodical beds.
She loses count.
                                   Sleek grasses
pouring from the sea-maw, the waves
like pitch pines. Tattered banners.
Slovenly tongues.
                          Lamberton frets her hand,


offers his mackinaw.
Though she’s blue-lipped,
she declines, moves into the spray.
He hears her laugh, then only
the gabble of the waves.

                      

William Kelley Woolfitt

 

 

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