Russell Erwin: Two Poems

Midwinter Birthday   From where we stand those Hokusai claws assault the headlands. Each time in the collapse there is mess—the smashed white, the shattering of glass. Spray, spume, foam. A pause, and then again. And this, inexhaustible.   As too, here, just beyond our feet, sidling as if coming to be fed, wine-clear, this water, ripples in its lithe, almost reptilian skin, and fattening, gathers depth before breaking, a slow-falling over in sods, folding smooth-faced, as by a plough—   and slides back into itself beneath a night-sky brilliance of sequin-glitter. Caul-laced and delicate, laundry-clean, with little rucks like…

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