Tanka
by
slack water,
the tide neither rising
nor ebbing;
for a moment I wonder if
I too can walk on
water
a breath
about to exhale
a clammy heat
on my skin
rain about to fall
even pine trees
come at last
to the autumn
of their lives.
there are
no dreams tonight
only memories
staring into the
persimmon darkness
she talks as she sails
this old wooden boat
of oyster days
and summer bays
and watermen grown old
the iron skeleton
at the water’s edge,
what was it once
when machines had meaning
and men their purpose?
be careful
what you write
even in your journal,
hearts are waiting
for their bruises
a new year
and new planks
for an old skipjack;
if only the seasons of
boats
were as certain as the
calendar
white daisies
and a red Christmas bow,
a little festive, yet
his grave
still looks lonely
winter work
long scratches on
my forearm parallel
the torn planks
of the old wooden boat