Poetry — May 20, 2014 11:14 — 1 Comment

Shore House at Winter – Kevin Casey

The breakers cut against the drowsing shoals,
and the lobster boats rattle like bones in their
moorings. Brackish whips of sand lash the granite
margin, beating the surf to foam and spray
that choke the harbor’s channeled throat.

This giant ocean house squats on its haunches
overlooking the cove; inside, the windows,
tall and drawn as steeples, and the dead-angled
joints and lines of beadboard and chair rail softened,
submerged in shadows of cornflower blue.

And always in shadows now, before the spring
arrives, turned like a key in our small cove
washed by the buoy’s bell, and your hair that
used to glow like honey now a darkened net —
the silhouette of beachgrass slowly catching at the wind.


Kevin Casey is a graduate of the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and received his graduate degree at the University of Connecticut.  His work has been accepted by The Orange Room Review, The Milo Review, Small Print Magazine, Tule Review, Turtle Island Review, and others.  He currently teaches literature at a small university in Maine, where he enjoys fishing, snowshoeing and hiking.

One Comment

  1. Karen Windus says:

    Very, very nicely done.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney