Evening Storm

Sharon Dolin

Evening-stormI want to paint the livingness of appearances.

        —Marsden Hartley

What of these evening storms

where foam becomes rock—wave

becomes cove. Inside the billow as

you always dreamed it would be

two men collapse into being.

Like so, the rocks give up their

solid stance. If Hart threw

himself from ship to sea, how

can you, Hartley, hardly alive

in this solitude, not find his

eye inside of you. There is a crest

a recurring tall wave that comes

for you. So little light gets through

other than in sea foam your desire

knit to storm—here is your Maine mountain where the upsurge

the passional thrust gets through.

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