10.

All that is left

Is wisdom. The marshes at Westport

Have almost receded, the cars

Shimmer by the trees

The white of boats on the water, the rust

Of rails, all take time. The first

Glimpse — saplings sprout

By the bridge. A disconsolate woman

Talks to herself because her phone

Has cut out, just when the vast

Atlantic comes into view

Her office is ours: she tries again

My mind in search of dreams.