Departures

At Island Harbor
boats have been hauled.
An empty pier points across the sound

to the Intercoastal,
a parade of migrating motor yachts and schooners,
a few bright sails.

Red admirals,
sulfurs, painted ladies, and monarchs
flutter in low light

over elaeagnus and late lantana
and don't seem to know
where Mexico is,

Charleston, Savannah, or Key West.
The light is perfect
and long shadows flare from the pilings.

When plankton dies,
the water clears like a mind.
Blueclaws disappear over ribs of sand.

The ocean deepens to an unkeepable blue.

Peter Makuck
Off-Season in the Promised Land
BOA Editions, Ltd.

Copyright © 2005 by Peter Makuck.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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