James Bay Revisited.

The first time that we got the summons
we hid behind the heavy chintz
holding laughing hands
to stifle all the sound
hoping that he wouldn't hear
above the sound of shingled waves
the tinny sound
of love not ready.

And yet each time that he returned
his fluted notes
would catch our breath
above the foghorn's eerie sob
and canvas crack and seabird's squeal
till at last we did emerge
from great embroidered tapestries
to follow him . . .
and leave our hollow art.