When pelicans fly low on white caps
and the artist pauses in her sketchbook,
When gulls off the peninsula argue
with the bald eagle, “Our nest, our nest,”
I sing Gaté, Gaté, para sum Gaté.
When shrimp boats rock on the horizon
and the Sapphic party of five
rushes to pilings at breaker’s edge
to awe at spray from not one, but two gray whales,
I sing Gaté, Gaté, gone now.
When a palette of Romaine Brook’s blue
gradiates to a pewter between-ness
Chromogenesis – a post-dawn above
sea-green beginnings below
I sing gone, gone, real gone.
While the artist drafts pre-Raphaelite lips
between amber and hazel glances –
Nos secrètes amours, no more
so pleased are they with their in-loveness.
When salty brine cleanses
bitter histories, this is the time
when the morning crashes beyond
the power of poetry
and I sing Gaté, Gaté, para sum Gaté.