A Sullen Geography

The autumn hills disdain us
by thrusting their igneous bulk
between us and a view of the sea.
We’d rather hear gulls clatter
than crows creak on their hinges.

We’d rather taste the fatal salt
than lick the last coffee sludge
from the seams of paper cups.
Inland people fade in shadows
that empurple leaf-strewn walks.

Sea people retain the sunlight
long enough to light themself
to bed while the surf is roaring.
We can’t afford to move close enough
to get sand in our shoes daily.

We can’t leap the hills except
in moments of giddy metaphor
that none of us find credible.
Taking notes doesn’t help solve
the parsed and sold-out distance.

Reading books whose bindings mold
all winter won’t sustain us.
Nothing we do can assure us
of drowning in naval dignity
when the sea has finished rising.