I

That quality which so early seemed
Novel, provocative, and here again,
Has set me off on the long road to God
Knows where, is the same of which I aim
To "sing", although it, less I, should be
The audible voice in these proceedings.
A window open on the square gives sound
Of diverse voices, and a cooling breeze
Enters and usurps the room. I pause here
To imagine it personified, hand
Outstretched in salutation, extending thanks
To myself and, by extension, to you
Who have been kind enough to peruse
This slim, but ever-expanding volume
Borne and driven by the act of making
Progress towards some as yet unknown end.
The rooftops flit in the afternoon light,
Move out in all directions. I have seen
The sprawl of the parti-colored city
From various terraces, nights in the past
When the air was crisp and visible. These
Days, there is movement here to rival
The meadow variety, and no wind
Slackens at the threat of sloping glass. Trust
Me, this is the place to do it, although
It's wrong to celebrate the urban landscape,
And necessary, like anything else.

Perhaps to give it some forward thrust, and
To be sure of bringing it full circle
(Although the idea of a circle is
Perhaps out of line with what I may be
Attempting), I will model the movement
On that of the ferry which departs
From Whitehall Terminal, near Battery
Park, and returns there. It is relevant,
That trip taken for itself, I think, to
The present undertaking. Consider
This an exercise. You needn't, in truth,
Consider it anything, just as I
Need not work under self-imposed constraints
(Or work at all, for that matter). This
Is looking (so far) like a portrait of
The work in progress (of which I can think
Of one example in Ponge's Soap, which
I've not yet read in its entirety).
But is that what I had in mind? And if
Not, what, pray tell, was I going to do?
One thing is certain: a thing once had
In mind is gone. That's how it appears
To the days old itinerary
Left alone, unread amidst the saavy
Clanking of generic cranks and pistons
In the ritual boiler room hubbub.
The ship is going down, as we all know,
And it was never my real intention
To impart a kind of miracle buoyancy
To anyone, let alone any thing.
I made last minute escape plans, but in vain,
For it was far too late. Instead, it seemed
There was only one intelligent thing
Left to do. I am a Pisces (too much

Information, perhaps), and not one to swim
Upstream. So, to aid by angling the craft,
Now submerged, into darker waters
In which there is not the faintest tincture
Of light or life, and to appreciate
The slow heave of invisible wavelets

Turning, siphoning those other wavelets
Whose eager flanks are angling to swim
With an ease not hard to appreciate
For one who has some knowledge of the craft,
Of the dimly incandescent tincture,
The silence of the ascending waters

Mirroring the cautious play of waters
As they mingle with the crazy wavelets,
Forming an unforeseen, rippling tincture
Undercut by black scooners and the swim
Of sails unfurled on an abandoned craft.
It takes real focus to appreciate

The wonders, the things that you appreciate
Seemingly without effort (these waters,
For example), and it takes studied craft
To transcribe the singing of the wavelets
And not surrender to the urge to swim,
To involve yourself in perfect tincture

As though it were artifice, not tincture
Far too beautiful to appreciate.
Dolphins, plankton, silver fish at swim,
Cloud with stupid glimmering the waters
Whose thoughts are manifest. Tiny wavelets
Caress the sun-worn surface of the craft.

I can no longer claim that it's my craft
That wrings from any form a lively tincture
(As the wind disturbs the latent wavelets
Into motion we can appreciate).
I go where I am taken by the waters,
Am taken even where I choose to swim.

If not by craft alone, we sink or swim:
Something that the wavelets appreciate
Beyond the tincture of dark waters.


1998