In a rowboat you can hear the other
boats knocking the pier like hollownesses
you hear waking in the dark, noises
of injured winds, passenger trains lit
with one or two reading lights and you hope
that it’s birds because you’ll never get back
to sleep now and then the sun will be up
and it’ll be okay to get dressed and
walk around, but it’s not. I’m out here
to be alone with my problems. Why did
M leave me for H? Why does G keep writing?
When you’re a kid you can stand for a hundred
hours throwing rocks in a lake, building
yourself a small island to set a hut on
and cultivate a small crop of cabbage.
When you’re a kid you want to believe
in the crow who flew to heaven, in
the woman bending over your bed,
high in high heels, far away
in galactic earrings. So for a while
you try to get to heaven and who knows?
Well, you come back a small, silly man
buying worms in delicatessen boxes,
letting half die, writing small loops
in the water with an oar. Well,
you come back with a knowledge of knots
and baits and birds, and cast off,
never quite right.