Out past Golden Gardens,

feet bare now in the sand but calloused,

impervious, though briny

raw gusts pelt at me:

I’ve walked, shod, beyond the pavilion and pathways,

to where Shilshole meets the Sound

and there are no people to meet

in this weather.

A low grey bank obscures

what might be the horizon.

The Ballard Locks are a mile

or two back, past the upscale

bistros and clubs,

back to where the Lockspot

and Sloop’s Saloon mark

the shipyards and tin-sided buildings

where work is actually done.

But out here, on the edge,

in the weather, collar up against

the whipping winds, shoes tied together

and slung like some kind of burden

across my shoulders,

I’m feel I’m in the

eye, the vortex,

rocking to the pulseless chords

of harsh, harsh

blues.