The Flat Pane of Time

Benjamin Jenkins, Cape Cod, life, New England, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Sit down to

Chickadee calls,

Electrical buzz of heat bugs.

Sailboats float Long Pond,

From where I sit on the bluff-

They could be shark fins.


Wind up midnight.

Moored to the NO WAKE buoy.

Drinking a pitcher of sidecars,

Counting shooting stars.

I’m up to thirteen.



Fire climbs the dead tree’s trunk.

Roots sink deep into

The dark meat; the beach

Candle will burn for eternity,

For the grace of memory.



Shiver through my spine to my toes.

Shoreline trees appear as material shadows.

The flat pond appears as mirror to space.

Flat surface tension reveals

Nothing of submerged dimension.



Star walks gnarly dirt road

Along the young cranberry bog.

She carries selected stones,

Collecting ore on five o’clock walks.

A rock hound with a garden,

People are so quick to call beast



Orange foliage and cold white waves

Are a dimension away:

Sun at Nauset Beach

And dry scales of short stunted Pine.

Seasons separated by

The flat pane of time.


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