Tamping the dust, damping the crisp noises
of curling, brittle leaves, fog settles
among trees. There are no crickets, no, and
no mosquitos. Owls are not stirring yet.
A quarter mile from the surf or more and
remembering roar I only hear my body
in minute repair, its process seething over
membranes into bloody fens, searching for
waste depots, at hollows of differing density
knocking. Thudding into mulch, compressing
air, wing-beats like furls of cloak sound,
chew loose earth, and mole to piles the dull
toe-stubbing bumps. Unencountered silence
I’ve made in collusion with the fog,
in primordial instinct myself submerged
with people and dogs. That whelming brings
exhaustion on, launching me to dwell this
anabatic distance from the sea where
only I enforce an isolation, elegant
and voluntary, from everything.
On the Way to
We’re on the train
It’s good to be off
the tossing, creaking ship that sits in port
behind us, listing fifteen degrees to starboard.
Fixtures and fittings
in the train’s compartment are even more compact—
cleverer, smaller—than those in the ship’s cabin.
I’m narrowly berthed, rumbling
through bleak and cold, arms gray and tight
to my sides, catapulted towards the
a lifeboat swinging from davits,
a flag-shrouded goldfish shot through a porthole,
a U-boat’s whirring torpedo,
a tailfinned bomb heading for
a girl in hiding, hugging her knees.
In the morning I walk the platform stiffly
alongside limping Germans.
Casey FitzSimons’ poetry appears in print and online in The