Clouds, Metaphysical

William Logan

The cloud bank over Cuttyhunk, like scalloped linen --

 just a short sail to faith and theology,

 divine imprudence, the tides of doubt.

 What was our workday, we who abandoned prayer?

 The canted port from which the dories set out,

 the rotted wharves, the glued-together clapboard

 cottages primly ranked, their makeup peeling,

 all investments in some Ponzi scheme

 of childhood, intimate but not metaphysical.

 There was a candor to the inked clouds,

 their shadows ruled off by Dürer, the nervous

 hatchmarks of each fold of cloth, flesh,

 such as might be remembered in, of, grace.

 The dories then. Oars up, floating in.