Part 1: THE BROKEN FISH
A boat stood on end, bow pointed at the sky.
Of course, this is how it gets around, cast off
the line from the oak tree it leans against
and up it goes.
The man who rows rides it like a rocket,
vertical at first, then, past the electric wires
and above the rooftops, he levels off,
scooping the oars hard into the air.
Now he can look down peacefully
on the backyards and streets and trees.
It all depends on what you’re looking for.
This early morning, an old aluminum sky
before the sun shines, he rows to the sea
to go fishing.
Following the road fifty feet below
it flows leading the way. The oarlocks
creak with each pull. A rooster crows
a few blocks away.
Oh, sometimes he stops rowing
lets the boat drift. There’s no hurry,
holding the oars out flat like wings
nailed to a wooden bird.
A chestnut tree brushes its leaves
along the smooth planks underneath,
a sigh as hushing as a seaweed bed.
to be continued...