The rock he once communed upon
  where he could ply
a lucid, solitary pen—
  now signals fly.

There at the far edge of the beach
  the coast was clear,
the rock was out of common reach,
  the past was near.

The only twitter that he heard
  above his head
descended from a skimming bird
  that quickly sped

to some ethereal domain.
  It let him be
where sun and wind were sovereign
  and set him free

to seek an underiving text.
  This was presage
to any wing that grazed him next,
  perched on the ledge

his kids would call “the poet’s chair.”
  The sea’s parquet
beneath his feet, the coffered air
  kept noise at bay.

And now the chatter will not cease
  where he aspired
to find a sweet, archaic peace.
  The rock is wired.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 30 Number 4, on page 45
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