On the horizon
One toy tanker pitches south
Playing hide and seek.
Broad as a fan, each rust-pocked
Leaf of the sea-grape.
—from “Fort Lauderdale,” by James Merrill
Almost a tanka—
Which (to remind the reader)
Allows a haiku
To glide above two submerged
Lines of seven syllables.
In my living room
Seven years after your death,
As a tape gave back
Your suave, funny-sad voice, I
Suddenly understood it.
“Toy tanker,” of course!
You’d pruned the tanka’s final
Syllables to five.
No one but you would have made
a bonsai of a bonsai.
Florida: last stop before
The grandeur of Sandover?
You played hide-and-seek—
Hoping a few fans might take
A leaf from your book.
Glimpsed behind the geisha’s fan:
Your quick smile, eyebrows lifted.
Some people make real
Tankers that can transport oil,
Do the heavy stuff.
Your father was one of them.
He greased your way: God bless him.
Why count syllables
When half the world is hungry?
You had no answer,
How many poems
Take the disappearing ship
As death’s vehicle!
Distant, you remain in view,
Still running on drops of ink.