Keith Moul
	At the Oregon Coast, Thanksgiving The shore takes its flogging like a common seaman at the mast, its crimes as ancient as the rain, its stand to justice natural and vast. No pressgang shanghaied me nor chained me to these rocks until the sea like cat-o-nines had lashed my heart out: no, I like its rhythmic sting enough to make my mark for life, be the voyage fitted out for war or tracking the leviathan, differences to a free man finally of small account. To One in the Night Outside Our Window Don’t be disappointed, unnerved, or feel cheated by our joy: a curtainless old house, built with suitable nooks to show our prizes off, and walls for picture hooks on which our lives’ images and icons float: the curious, private things unaltered by your peering. Are you surprised that shame and privacy are not the same? I sympathize— for hidden in the bushes, leering into others’ lives, you wish for more than love or joy—you crave our deep derision, guilt, the self-incited madness of the childishly obscene, our full humiliation. Don’t be surprised: inside our home the night-black window mirrors sometimes foolishness, sometimes distorts our cries.