In the Year of the Snake

A gull grips the roof ridge across
from my kitchen window.  Here

in Dorchester-by-the-sea, where
the Red Line and Expressway clutch

the coast, the animals don’t
blink, and there are so many

books I’ve yet to read, so
many things unswept; the front

garden maculate with leaves
and rubbish, the gate fixed crooked.

On the ferry out to Nantucket
at New Years, Brian told us to watch

for deer, that when the mainland
became too crowded they would swim

for island pasture, a myth
which became certain each time

they arrived.  Some five o’clock
evenings now, when the bay air lifts

enough to find my winter gable,
I look for them, don’t you?

Antler nubs, raised just above
the currents, hooves churning away

from the shatter-frozen shore,
navigating.

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