The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Michael Gessner
The Cypresses of Monterey Bay stand
with green flat-tops, like stroppy berets,
the rest all trunk, shiny-smooth & gray,
randomly broken 8’s & twisted 3’s
polished by vandal sand & wind.
Here is one, with hand-on-hip,
& its head, a flat branch around
an empty circle—ready to strut
across a wild stage, all akimbo
as if on some chilly carnal mission.
“Eerie,” tourists say, like the stick people
who walk the beach day after day,
who must live near the sea at any price,
as if the ocean would fill an empty heart
through which sea wind blows,
& what they say they say to themselves
as if no one else had ever been, that they too
had made some memorable performance
that cannot be recalled, some thought
that returned only to leave again.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication