At the Edge of the World
it is night, there is a lighthouse
on an island where
a man climbs the tower stairs
high above the rock,
a lighthouse where the man
bends his knees
slowly, to absorb the shock
of the cape, this ocean, blackness
and where the water gnaws the rocks
the starfish are prying muscles
from basalt pools, like the backseats
of cars, they are hungry like boys
who must return by twelve, return
there, like a flood, like
a star at the edge of
the sea, at the turn of the cape
the sea is black, is torn, cold
like legs just opened, muscles
waiting for the inevitable,
the starfish don’t have anywhere else
there is a boat, the crew praying,
and everyone is waiting
for the answer, watching,
clinging to the idea
of a lighthouse,
the rocks clinging
to the edge of the sea
the man is watching,
holding eight hours of light, holding
eight hours of kerosene
like the sunrise
watching the blackness
he is watching,
their prayers, he is holding
their beam of light
at the edge of the rocks
he is clinging to the rocks,
waiting for the inevitable, waiting
for the beam of light
to show him