Gardiner Creek

They exhaust me who preach
the world is mine to make,

as though without me – or
someone sadly like me – there is

no epic tale of light’s procession here,
no narrative of tides

or of desiring birds. Is this
what they, bedside,

tell their children?
Out here, in dawn’s half-light,

where the world makes me whole – us
whole – I praise the narrow inlet,

its brackish story, that warbler nearby
getting it said – I am here.

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