Missing over the Sea
by Michael Brett
All the world belongs to the missing:|
You see them everywhere.
Even the Sun calls aloud in every wave-
He's still alive- and the waves hold vigils,
Moving in rows like cowled monks, holding candles
And the seashells call
It's true, it's true.
I dreamt I could use a blue key to unlock the ocean
And then-as locksmiths do-
Perhaps take slivers of the waves and shells to make new keys
To unlock earth and sky-
Each one inside the other like magic boxes-
And find him, or at least discover
What became of him;
At home, the uncleared desk, the empty letters,
The marinas of empty shoes lined up like Monday yachts
And guarding suits filled with invisible men
Crowding round the ammonite phone;
But here, I watch the heavy waves,
Each like an arm flung over the eyes,
And I seemed swallowed like him,
Inside a strange and invisible gut, in a kind of marriage
That would end if he returned.
I sit on a train and think 'Is this the one he took?'
Or 'Did he ever stand in this pub?'
I have stood on his airstrip watching the wind
Ruffling the clouds and wondered
If it would all come to an end with a body
Like a kind of conjuring trick
Between the Moon and the sea.
I have reread all his letters and I still don't know.
Copyright © 2012 - Michael Brett
Published: 10/11/12 · Author's Page · Next Poem