The poem’s there, pulled by the flow, tossed by the boat;
in sunlight, spun in the circles of water;
here, on the bank, the bare branches of winter,
bowed to the water. It motors: like film, the repose
of passengers in profile, still, but this 1 girl
turned her head as an afterthought, saw, she thinks,
a glimpse of man stood tall. So. He thinks her lips
formed vowels, an O, for the real flesh of man, tore
off, with her teeth, something… Think: what it is
to be her, there, to see me falling away caught
in the trees like it’s really me that’s moving.
This will have to do – the circular wind
rolling the sky; the solitude I feel, hung still
like a gull reeled, art that blows even before
it stills. Here my thoughts are degenerate,
post-modernist, a white page of black lines,
the rudimentary outlines
of bare trees.
I envision the scene – now, but tonight also
& all my days, nailed like stars that light the walls
of a room I slept in 10 or 12 years ago.