For you, living by a thread
It moves, as you, in aquiline regurgitations,
This that lifts you there, to that shore beyond,
On which crouches another wingspan of cold-cut windows,
Catching the polluted gems of seafoam and downwind edges.
The possibilities of March curling forth across the bitter glass,
Lay out their forms, rusted and choked with hourglass sand
As wares across a blanket, sold to the same dry, blue town
Caressed with mild, insincere interest.
Here, as there, the boat is a vessel for habit,
A tide-bound turn to disease and familiarity
When the more modern has exhausted dry its frosted veneer
And you take your pennies to the water, weighing this worth
Your nausea pulsates against the calligraphy of vellum and velour
The gaze stapled and stitched to pattern, inevitably,
Now you contemplate liberation as a thing contingent on stillness
As before your freedom lulled on distant waves
There, the sky-rimmed garden from which you once tore yourself from the backdrop
Spitting the skin of your throat to the vast out there
Little space for a little god, to whom you ask humbly
That the ferryman may not be the man to bend to your blood on the deck.
How far this gentle tide, this spoiling silt does unfurl,
How sharp and sure shall we stand against the wailing engines and shout,
That the green gaze of that copper woman may soothe us
That here is as good as anywhere
So long as you rarely stand still.