BETWEEN US

Between phlox in a rock garden
and pebbles from the sea
the dead stones come alive
from my noon daydream
of tackle fishing in November
on the other side of the Bay
here for a last run on the Cape
miles away from the shore
as trout survive
seconds, seasons, times
now remembering my headlight
of my motorcycle
needs to be switched off
e mailing my sailor friend
along these predicable waves
visiting me from England
who plays drums like Ringo
named by his blues singer mom
who named him after
her attending in London
my Beat poem reading
hoping Ringo
would become an ecologist
traveling like his brother Mo
on roads always of exodus
living in tabernacles and tents
over unnoticed desert borders
to protect and rescue turtles
sea lions, whales, other mammals
by outposts of crowded sails
under chromatic rays by sunshine
with look-outs over grassy island
though Ringo was a Hollywood extra
in a brief dust up column
about a movie involving
a triangle affair
starring his wife Brenda
who was also film director
who understood his life of venture
and eventual poetic surrender,
tells me not to worry even though
he is tossed in motionless waves
riddled by his own jokes
in his blue angler kayak
who says he noticed
the old Harley and fixed it
in the parking lot on the dock.