T.S.ELIOT AT ROCKPORT

It is to the rocks
at Pigeon Cove
watching the cormorants
and not to the monotonous tide
at St. Ann's sandbar
that will salvage your name
it is to the ocean
and not to the fluid borders
that will embroider you
by the stones and surf
in the morning mist
of your mineral waters
that will anoint you
from the anchors
of the tourist boat from Boston
through a water song shadow
that will offer prayer
to your conscience
in a cup's communion
and it is to the silence of the eagle
perched on the harbor dock
in the windshield of the sun
that will lock your eyelids
into your torpor of mind
familiar though a threatening storm
that will save the whole sky
in a flushed warm August dog day
of a fevered heat wave
that leaves your conflated memory
in language by a daybreak sentence
and why ,T.S., to make any sense
as the birds chatter
and the clouds scatter
why does it matter, T.S. Eliot
by the parking lots of visitors
with their mirrors of the past
that enfold across their own corridors
as Gloucester maps are lost on bridges
and are caught by the lone sail
down the hills by the rails
of the last train
that sought to visit by the dunes
or pursue a wanton shadow
of days that are narrow
as you kneel by your bed
hearing the northeastern wind
confessing your sins
it is not by the clocks
in the town
or ivy that descends over dales
as you watch sailors and wives
gather seaweed and snails
while you feel at church
only the nail scarred hands
search a sequence of designs
walking now on the beach sand
knowing as the noon bell rings
and a choir sings
inside you believes the face
of a memoir is being composed
and small birds are clinging
to Evergreen branches
by the muggy rose garden
to pardon us  all in grace.