The causeway hums with murk and stillness,
snails like warts on the ledge’s black hip.
Dove coo, British soldier lichen —
the fog doesn’t lift, the crows drink it
with their talk.
Maybe the pines get their green now,
I don’t know.
There are boats in the gut
I can’t see anymore. Later the man
with the red and white Dodge will come
and dig for steamers. Bent like that
even the clouds will pray to him,
by God, if there are any left by then.