Radar

<i>A Postscript for Marianne Moore</i> No one exactly knows Exactly how clouds look in the sky Or the shape of the mountains below them Or the direction in which fish swim. No one exactly knows. The eye is jealous of whatever moves And the heart Is too far buried in the sand To tell. They are going on a journey Those deep blue creatures Passing us as if they were sunshine Look Those fins, those closed eyes Admiring each last dropp of the ocean. I crawled into bed with sorrow that night Couldn’t touch his fingers. See the splash Of the water The noisy movement of cloud The push of the humpbacked mountains Deep at the sand’s edge.