You and I inhabit thresholds, clinging to neither here nor there, and to
and: this is a threshold of no relief, of interrogative light and obviated
shadows, of questions flattened between clapboard slides,
in laboratories of hanging frames—in a potential frame,
the next moment slumps beneath the shadow of the overhang.
They call it earthquake weather, a day like this, of reflected light
and leveling heat of no relief, of corners around which
and angles of incidence jellied in consommé,
molded in amber lunches of tea and
impossible: no incidents or tension, no reflection.
No striations: rather, bangle, a broken shoelace
and what are we going to do about that hair?
We were in a boat. You were navigating and I was tending
the lines, which flew from my hands, flapping like live wires
on the wind. You watched the shadow of our sail on the water
through the light reflected in your face, conducted a depth sounding:
You went under, but not overboard, swam away to plot reliefs
of ocean floors. It is far too shallow here to die.
for Chip Madden