It’s a hazy day and an onshore wind blows in from off the Mediterranean 
                                                                                                              in Aeolian puffs
that billow the straw-colored drapes I’ve drawn aside for this Dufy-like 
view of pleasurecraft, Zodiac boats, and double-deck tour cruisers
off to the Calanques and their narrow bays of glittering Byzantine blues.
A battered fishing dinghy and what looks like a Chris-Christ craft nearly collide
									                                      in the channel,
and I can only consider the solace of waters shading from celadon to cyan.

It’s a better discipline than calculating my equity balance on May 28, 2005,
than rowing in a flat scull cutting past the fearful prow of a dread future.
Seagulls peep like erinyies wearing white linen suits, sky-jockeying
					                      and sailing in the greying zenith of woe.
I’m just a Dharmakaya short of True Enlightenment, my Self and Soul
                                          paralyzed between Baldo and the blues….

What would the Householder of the Azure Lotus say
				          about my life without consolation or civil war?
Issa about my having lost nothing but the dew of morning
to the engines of weather, these benign winds of non-change
						                        from the Cyrenaica and Fezzan?

I make a fretful drama of cynosuric worries, the orchestral churn of care
shalloomphing over the currents in my blood like that frantic outboard
on a boat half-past the horizon and too far out for rescue or secure return.