January

I go up
to that edge
again and again
rarely
at night
usually midday
sometimes
in the morning, at sunrise
always to look
do you see it there?
an edge, a bluff, with a quarry
to make your way around
the ground, the gravel, pinkish
and a bent wind-weathered scrub forest
before coming
to the open sea

usually alone
I never called it
not once
at whom I would find there
and once or twice
who found me
I always think
I'm the better spotter, lookout, seer
its funny to me
and
a curious relief
to be wrong
I suppose
now that I think about it
I love it
to be seen

I love it
to reread
or re-see
my own words
and self
when I was honest
and told the truth
even years later
I can always perceive it
it comes together
in those moments
a cohesion
and a comfort
and a willingness
at that edge.