The copy bobs—embellished fair—
the whole of it—yet unmarred,
moored at a jetty’s end—but
at a loose tether to water’s surface—
the choppy water sags the line.
Hands lost in the sheaf, so
well-etched, each grading rise, each
darting crease. The wave.
Hands lost in the moving sheaf.
Ink snakes in the crease. The
whole white-dulled view roars in accord—
at a loose moor, from the sharp spars—
sharps of water start to blot
black bells in the paper’s grain.
-2003
