South of The Park -- A Set***
A set by Randolph Bridgeman

      I
I search radio stations at
the stoplight, there's
overdue videos on the
backseat, dog hair in my
coffee, the fog is loitering
in the lowlands, ducks are
flying like missiles and
oystermen stand knee-deep
in mud waiting for good
things to happen.
In the cracked asphalt
my tires count out the
cape-cods with windows in
the back, a bay view,
people here live looking
away.

      II

Here in this house by
the Chesapeake, she
slides into my bed
as smooth as a rosary
through the hands of
a hypocrite.
In this house of storms,
of violent sunsets and
brilliant moonlight that
bleaches our sheets and
scours us clean, she is a
dream in summer rains
running barefoot.

      III

There are church bells
in the morning wind.
The air is song filled with
geese singing for
me to revive the memory
of her shadow gliding
by the slats of this
old barn that let in just
enough light to know her
shape and her smile that
made the rafters shine as
she untied her shoes and
walked the bails of hay.

      IV

She is a mute woman
wrapped in ragged green,
watching birds drag the last
of afternoon's light through
orchard trees, their wings
fan a coming chill and she
leans against the sky feeling
wind pump like her heart
attuned to these woods,
the stonewall fence, its vines
clutching the crevice side.

          V
I noticed a stranger,
dark glasses, camera in
hand, sweater knitted
in shades of a seagull's
wing.
I thought he might be an
artist, Irish perhaps,
hunting perspective on
the coast.
He stared at the newly
fallen snow as if it had
been a long-dress trailing
the memory of his winter
bride.