We come from there—that
clattering tautology. The boon’s
the boom—what lowers a load
from the tottering sky;
the dock’s the planks and pilings,
strictness of the structures made
so we can walk on water, put
these franking footholds on
the riled-up rookery; the dock’s
the bracing that the boat is lashed to:
tarry trunk, and tacky creosote.
An orange star attaches to a moment,
waves toward a slo-mo lobe.
A finger’s inch outruns
a yardarm’s reach—the boon’s
the rope, the slip, the pilings, and
the sound. We come from there,
and we want more. Another ton
of sky-stuff winches down.