Pastoral VI
(The Arrow)
Grass River, cradledby the lens’ shadow, telescopes
without terminus. Sun-balmed
frog-pads and saw-grass. Immobile: No fish
or loon intrudes. You were impossible
too: asleep by the stove, oiled
perfectly derelict. Was it the year
a mother told me she’s no longer
a mother? Motoring through
the swamp to the last extant shack
was like ambling off the edge
of the world, she said, and there
you were: auxiliary, spectral, assuming
no particulates, unpricked
by light. In the distance we can’t see,
no kestrel wheels through the palms, no bird
behind a bird, no intelligence chucking rocks
to prove itself apart from the proper
accident. E.g., a woman who is beautiful.
A pleasant place to gaze on.