Innermost Sentinel Poem by Marc Mannheimer

out, out,

out on Erie,

frozen chunks,

broken, raw, cut blocks of lake –

sullied water…on the rocks…with a twist.



behind the miles of liquid expanse,

a lone building, weather station rests,

seagull love nest where people barely visit

but to run tests on weather and water quality.

a monastic it is, with no one to speak to,

nothing to share but for blips and dots,

waves and numbers

spewed inland

to encumber machines and minds,

weary with information.



and with the din of sunken ships,

sailing in, sailing in

to break walls, to dead loved ones,

boats bounce off rocks,

seafarers clock hours til tea, til time for lunch,

til it’s time to come home to arms of loved ones;



and in, inward in,

past Halite factory,

streetlamps, shoreway,

fence guarding nothing down that forlorn hill,

trees, weathered, wintered,

sentinels before all,

broken, leafless, snarling, gnarled,

standing farthest in, but for one more sentinel

taking precedent –



the cold, the chill of grey frost in the air,

from the horizon to here;

my face feels unwelcome

in its red wonder at the beauty of solid desolation.