A lone tern turns in the blowsy wind,

and there’s the ocean and its timbrous repetitions,

and what a small pleasure it is

that the shade, halfway down,

poorly conceals the lovers next door.

Fishing boats and sea air,

the moon now on the other side of our world

influencing happiness and crime.

The spiritual life, I’m thinking, is worthless

unless it’s another way of having a good time.

To you I’ll say it’s some quiet gaiety

after a passage through what’s difficult,

perhaps dangerous. I’d like to please you.

So many travelers going to such a small state -

I can see the ferry, triple-tiered and white,

on its way to Delaware.

I’m peeling and sectioning

an orange. I’m slipping a section into my mouth.

What a perfect thing an orange is

to think about.

I should say to you

the spiritual life is what cannot be had

through obesiance, but we’ll get nowhere

with talk like this.

A darning needle just zoomed by.

The dune grass is leaning west.

Come join me on the deck,

the gulls are squawking, and an airplane

pulling a banner telling us where to eat

is flying low over the sand castles

and body sculptures the children have built.

The tide will have them soon. Moments

are what we have.