In Big Sur, we stop at the sign of the phoenix,
occupy a rail side table, contemplate foggy coastline.
Woodpeckers savage a dead tree as we reminisce--
lobster salad, cold champagne, past lunches in sunshine.
Sere slopes give way to sheer cliff, an infinity
of glittering waves, muted blue mountains.
This was Henry Miller’s sexual playground, Richard Burton
Now tourists dare a difficult drive to visit, take photos,
pay exorbitant prices for signature burgers.
Sunset at Vista Del Mar
San Simeon geography reinvents itself
though geology’s relentless cycle:
fissure, crumble, and slide.
Trails meander, vanish abruptly.
Near dusk, I descend the unstable grade
of a recent avalanche, huddle within
gale-gouged cliff’s eroded cleft,
evade rising wind that bites to the bone.
This is the golden miracle for which
I have stumbled, persevered.
Final light sags like glowing lava
through purple layers of fog.
Fey mist effaces summer, drops faux muslin scrim
over golf greens, stony coast line, floats above ocean.
High clouds commingle with incoming fog banks,
mimic hazy, cataract-impaired vision.
Vague silhouettes and muted squawks suggest
strings of passing pelicans, circling sea gulls.
Clingy atmosphere humidly precipitates from white sky,
films jackets, eye glasses, drips among cypress.
Gray surf, encroaching spindrift whisper ashore.All deeds are invisible, morning sound muted.