Except-the almost odorless warm sand and the smell of salt–
Where?-where they were happy. Atlantic City? L.A.?
The waves gush in fizzing, halt,
Trailing seaweed and sunlight, and flush away.
On its back, opened up, his billfold sweats on the damp tiles,
As
if helpless, where it was dropped. His wife's snapshot smiles
Up from the floor- he opens the door. Turning gold-
Rimmed silver cartwheels on the hall rug, the blond child....
Shocked by the static in his kisses, she starts to scold.
WAY·STATION
Halfway through paradise
a bell rings, a clock strikes,
but there is no way of ending
this journey and not embarrassing
my father, there is no coat
of modesty to cover me.
There are tree avenues of
persuasion, there are coppices
of love which from the distance
had looked like hedgehogs, there
are also bells in my hands
still tinkling yuletide charms.
Frederick Seidel
