Journal of Italian Translation - Brooklyn College - Academic Home ...

Morning,
and the mist hangs
close
upon the water.
Islands
disappear. Trees,
ledges melt
into a sameness
of white light.
Awaking
to their world’s
obliteration,
but for his ox
alone, alone
on Hog Island,
Fred Carver
would holler
‘Halloo. . . Halloo. . . ?’
Into the gleaming
still droplets,
hollered ‘Halloo . . .?’
till slipping
through the silvered
selvedge of
the long lapping
silence, higher
pitched, from Mr. Beal
atop his unseen
tower on Pumpkin
Island Lighthouse
three miles down
Journal of Italian Translation
Life-Lines
196