There’s a sign near the waterfront
I think it’s advertising cheer:
says 400 years, virginia spirits. A swig.
A year ago last night, my dead crowd me
an even ceremony
of Jamestown, at the schooner
that brought those first here.
They think: long trip
did not yet know, not the longest part
hairpin turns ’head:
The exact day’s alignment,
if the moon bled that defining night. Wisp
of clouds. Was sunset
golden? I’m sitting
yards away. Feel pulling
Brooklyn cemetery, southeast. I’d been
with friends, white from
out of town, just before. We marvel
at the dock’s sky hues, pinking, baby’s breath, the water’s
iris of the narrow, soft cotton scenes
atmosphere, the svelte lede.
Back, many birds fight for food
at the edge of my home
drywall crates upon another
until the next storm
hits, a sandy conflagration of shore and concrete,
or other setback of colluding elements. The birds are
notes along the rail. They see inside.