There is no death in the sun. I know it will look far otherwise
to anyone watching from shore, anyone standing

at the blue Aegean, pointing up at a mythical bird soaring

I will not sleep.
Men sleep and the beasts sleep, and no one watches.
The paid watchmen going their rounds

That old scene—monkey see and monkey do—
is done. That organizing grind, the grid,
is barred. Guerilla movements must exclude

I never sit in a canoe but rest my bare knees
on the curved ribs of the bow
to feel the water slap and ease through canvas

Mornings like this—no drift
         to the canoe, no bass
at the lure—the shiver-calls of loons

Everything’s a couple sizes bigger: a sky
Cutting deep into the streets, hydrants
As hefty as the heads of oxen, the country’s flag

The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight
run singing. Come here to drink
translucent drops on fresh leaves.
Come over here, and try to light that wick.

The year of the hurricane 
(we are speaking) 
              bay roadway 

Which is actually a tree
you cannot recognize

Paul Guest, I am looking forward to your birthday
and the long chain of fitful celebrations
that will follow and be broken