The sun is a thin line of red
broadening over the bay.
It slices the horizon, strikes light
into a darkness poised
to disclose some secret the night
couldn’t shake out of it. 

Trout smokes over hot coals.
Wild ponies in the distance
charge along the strand, kick sand
up behind them, an inelegant cloud
that smears the dawn’s gouache.

It’s unbearable, this scene,
its sickening romance.

Still I want to hold it, to freeze
its sudden architecture
in the flotsam of the beach—
to suck the ichor from its rib.

It wouldn’t sustain me, I know.
The gulls turning their circles
would grow dull.
I’d berate the sand flea’s itch.
The gravitation of the tide’s pull
would choke me with ennui. 

Pear blossoms soon give way to pears,
I’ll never stop eating them. 

By John James ’09

From The Milk Hours by John James (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2019). Copyright © 2019 by John James. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions. milkweed.org