Inaccessable Areas Exist

An abalone in a pail,

Large and lonely and muted,

Sits in a galvanized jail. While

Its own mortared shell, gray-hued,

Hides delirious light:

Amassed motes

From years of labor

Imbued iridescent.

Now hauled from home,

Sublittoral,

By an eager boy who works up the slope,

Bright and whistling

Through the serpentine,

The outcrops above the ocean

Where the Mendocino cypress barely cling,

Closed-coned and bending.

A flycatcher lifts and flits,

Startled,

With a quick trilling cry.

So small and then gone

To redwoods high.

Oh, gray-green passerine,

Take me with you

On your little barred wings~~

While in rooms below,

Counterpaned in black and white

Of the new night,

Ruby slippers gleam,

Lustrous sheets glacier up,

then flow.