Bill Gottlieb

Into Deep

Coffee; a muffin; a gull gliding to its stint with the ready sea, wetly steady amidst much crumble and dust.

Prone on the patio, a black Lab pants next to the shapely shoes of its coated master, the shore-near northern morning blowing cool. A thin of thong toys with my tawdry eyes.

The master’s mild mate, leash looped under his thoughtful thigh, is texting, tasking, tugs his gray-flecked beard, for a secret sec tries to spy some smirking pick—a scab of crud, a scuttle of crust.

A murmurous roust, a clot of topics—parley evaporates into the vast.

Existence descants, sells our little lives a lilt and a tale, a range and array of troubling lovable lore. And, dear eyes, I adore the daily roar—even the drone of drown and done.

Summer is soon; blue supposes the sky; sentences tide towards periods, the dotty poetry time promised, a promenade to note.

intonations of ocean
hold your ear to your whorled head
and attend