Depoe Bay

by Steve Arntson

copyright 2009

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D-e-p-o-e Bay

Well, it’s a misspelled place

Unless “Depoe” is French    or means more than storage

But no one’s talking    no one’s saying

Edgar Allan’s honored

obliquely

discreetly

But no one’s scared    no one’s anxious

Business is good

It’s summer and crowded

The D River flows and waters the sea

a hundred yards at a time

Later on we’ll know

And know what to make of it

Silence falling out of the geographic word

to an Absolute name

begun like the start of the day

its training wheels barely spinning ’round

First part of a book’s impulse and cry for help    for delivery

A depot for Defoe    and archive

It is the bay-before-departure’s bathtub

with baby boats and brand-new brains

Tub in the house of Tiny Town

Whose strict constructions

belie the superseding chaos

of coastal funny-faces sounding city names

beginning with “D”

You can almost believe in their brevity

I want you to remember enough    just enough

to pronounce the syllables two

that tell of the time there

And remember the tide that came in

as if out of curiosity and obedience

for a word-for-word of morning blessing

Plenty of place despite the crowds

And tamper-proof despite the depot’s shifting

alphabetical being

The deal is:

although THEN there were Indians

and the Taliban is due and certainly TO COME

right now you are safe

safe

safe

and thoroughly astray

in a town

like a vault

of tumblers