The Art of Poetry

I was living on the 2nd floor of
a Mexican building (thick plaster walls,
stone stairways).   I had to run down to meet
& smoke a cigarette w/Duncan McNaughton
in the public patio, or plaza, in front of
the building, high up above the beach.
We sat at a little table smoking, watching
the huge waves which suddenly turned
all rust colored & then thickened up
& froze like plaster.   An odor of rotten
fish drifted up from the motionless sea.
“That’s red tide,” I told Duncan.
He made a face & said, “Well, that’s
disappointing.”   I told him I was sorry
& he stopped me―   “You can’t apologize
for the ocean,” he said.