Sunday night and the feeling I'm trapped within the context
of our current war I thought I could prevent with a poem
written to my former Sequoia High School buddie,
after losing him to Vietnam.
Though close to forty-two years ago,
I have not forgotten the motorcycle
ride on the backroads as we cross
the Pacific Coastal Range in half-light,
giant conifer shadows, deepening,
as we wind toward San Gregorio,
Half Moon Bay.
The poem is to remind me of what persists:
waves breaking on the shore,
sandpipers running the rim of the ocean
as though to stitch and restitch
what has torn,
and memory that does not vanish
with the dawn.