Golden Zone

Waking that morning, I rose before the sun,
leaving such sensations as I can’t tell here—
somewhere was only sunlight, me drifting off,
beside the blue, in a morning marked my own,

waking before the sun, before the water-
man carrying on, before he pedaled his
wet weight by, crying AG-UA! AG-UA! AG-UA!
Some mornings are louder than others, it’s true.

Some mornings are wider than our dreams of water.
When islands lie close to the cliffs as they dare,
it’s better to stay clear, better to stay up
and brave the wave of air, and wheeze the long way,

to some hill without a house, the path’s soft edge,
ledged above the city, above the sea.
Who there would hear me, happy stone, happy mouth?
What falls past my feet? These words swimming out.