shadows through tall grass
and over the spindly gray limbs that litter
the south end of the lake. I cannot
always navigate their tangle to observe
by kayak the slow technique
of the elegant bird, thin neck and head
poking spear-like at the rising moon
to swallow her quicksilver prey.
But I do not come here to see a bird hunt
or watch a moose forage or even one
pair of feasting waxwings dance on air.
I come out, reclined in yellow fiberglass,
to inhabit the instant of last light
suspended between the darkening sky
and water. I come here to remember
how small I am, how nearly
invisible toward midnight I become,
enfolded by the skin of my slender craft.
How I love to all but disappear
when the moon finally sets and what’s left
to burn inside this diminutive form
is the faint testimony of ancient stars.
So It Goes
Winter antelopes into erstwhile
dogmas committed against an ivory
cane, and three ducats of pilsner
can’t buy me lust or you levitating
with one hand on the other in arcs
of unctuous radiator steam falling
all over itself like drunken blind luck
or a dispossessed Carnegie.
Don’t get me wrong. Trains are
my optimal frame of deference,
their unsung articles gallivanting
the transvaal with brash gargoyles
in a grand quartersawn wish
to make moguls of slush piles
the old-fashioned way, by blowing
in their alabaster nostrils. And reeking
of time, I am here to report that
the gossamer intersection of infinite
space and your sizzling flywheel
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