We pitched our tents at Rialto,
then hiked north past Hole-in-the-Wall,
past the Chilean Memorial,
looped around Cape Johnson
and moved inward to Lake Ozette,
where we rested.
On the way back we clambered over
rocks in the dark, got trapped
by the tide, and had to spend the night
in shorts by a fire.
But back, finally, at our tents,
cooking pancakes, what I remembered –
and remember now most –
is my reading a poem, not my own,
at the lake, and faltering,
who was I to read such a thing?
And your gently urging me on,
as though you could know and love in me
what I couldn’t yet love
For John Daniels
And for Shelley and Darryl
This way goes a different way,
beautiful from above, past
a factory and windows
and now sheep and now mud.
Who am I, geese, wittily concealed?
Who am I, gulls, your salt sea revealed,
after water and grass
and stubble and mud?