In the line of sight

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In the line of sight

Now, in this moment, this now in which your eyes
follow the dark lines of language—grey geese or
great cranes lifted on steady wings and into flight
across a continent for the warm shores of the south—

this now in which your eyes are carried downriver
with flow and tide, over water, through bend and lock,
are carried under bridges and falling branches—
the low, certain sound of an engine echoing

across reflected clouds to the bank and back again—
are carried down until at last, through lingering mists,
estuary, wide-open mouth and the slow curves
of coastline that disappear north and south

appear in this only moment, this now in which
your eyes, looking all about, head over the nameless
ocean until only water in every direction is again sky,
until only occasional ships and low, passing clouds

are all that break the swells and line of horizon,
this now when there is no longer going back to when
there wasn’t this, this now, where you were before
beginning, standing alone in the heat of morning

on a bank and following lines, struck blind.

“Blue Rivers” (Snailpress/Crane River 2011)