I want to paint the livingness of appearances. —Marsden Hartley What of these evening storms where foam becomes rock—wave becomes cove. Inside the billow as you always dreamed it would be two men collapse into being. Like so, the rocks give up their solid stance. If Hart threw himself from ship to sea, how can you, Hartley, hardly alive in this solitude, not find his eye inside of you. There is a crest a recurring tall wave that comes for you. So little light gets through other than in sea foam your desire knit to storm—here is your Maine mountain where the upsurge the passional thrust gets through. Copyright © 2017 Sharon Dolin. Used with permission of the author. |
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