by Jeffrey Jullich
Revisions from an Unfinished Poem
I sat by the motor end, as you lifted the fishing net.
In the finespun daylight, it was a variegated
Grid of threads and gaps. I will never forget
How the cells of your skin were tessellated.
Most of the day, but your skin is a perfect mosaic
On the walls of my brain.
At this point in my memory, a fog
Rolls in, with the consistency and thickness
Of peasoup. The inlet became a bog
And our breath, lost in the hazy sickness
Of a mental block. Do I now understand
What it is to be a perfect vacuum, a hole
In space? The boat reappears, and you stand
There. Nothing has happened. The boat has placed a variole
On the water.
And the years are replicated.
Do I now understand
What it is to be a perfect vacuum, a bit
Missing out of the hole?
The boat has left a single pit.
first published in Columbia Review, 1977
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