All night it was the great hooting
troll that lives under our bridge
warning us off from running aground
on the bay, its mouth, specifically.

Not a phone on vibrate
or riot siren from Oakland
nor yet some new form of Tsunami early warning:
the fog horn, come down to our Mission hutch
clear from the city's far craggen tip.

All night. I woke and slept and always,
yes. The horn in fog, warning ships,
not us, oh just keep clear of the big orange
bridge for chrissakes. It was nice to me still.
A tidal replacement for our lost mouse skritter. Still. Good.
Long oh sound. Every warning in its long mouth
a cradle-shaped mystery.

Good friend, I wrote this for you
that it might be good
and therefore might help us excuse
the things we've done and, more,
things we haven't. For surely what
have we, either of us, in our time
done?
                           Yet, all things, all,
are still in the doing.

01/09/2009

Posted on 01/31/2009
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