All along the aging shore,
as that wild Pontchartrain shimmers below my feet,
The vision of a thousand eyes on that sunset,
these crashing waves,
Do you remember that time she wrapped herself in curtains?
And then I said to you that I am
whatever may be
shining out from deep beneath,
Beneath every layer there,
from within the heart of her quiet light.
In the precious dance of her Spanish moss,
and her face as it shines,
The vision of a thousand finely hued skies.
Where all the muddy eyes that lie
in loosened gestures