Point Reyes
.
Fog’s inverted heaven hangs over the water.
The beach sloshes back and forth.
From here, the view is blue-green and, to the North,
the angled line of shore unwinds into the fog.
.
Water and waves have cut cliffs and rolled dunes
from the sand. Scraps of green-brown weeds
shuffle under the sea winds. If you can see it,
a white line of wake divides up the water
.
and slides to the north, past the dunes
heaped like monsters. The fall from these cliffs
would be long and, in theory, soft, if
we landed on imaginary sand. But we can’t.
.
Bluesbox
.
I create a second box
where sadness of mine is laid.
Spare or plush,
importantly it’s far away
.
from here. Spare
is okay. Green day shatters
against my doorstep.
The thick-soup night matters
.
most, since signifying
rest. Whether a poem is enough
bone to pin old flesh to
is a question like a kite caught
.
in a poplar, flapping
in the backdrop
of the stately blue.
.
Magda Andrews-Hoke lives in Philadelphia. She has studied religion, literature, and linguistics, and was a 2019 recipient of the Frederick Mortimer Clapp Fellowship for Poetry. Her poems can be found in Commonweal, Transpositions, and The Friend.
.
North of Oxford 