H O R I Z O N L I N E S

Momentarily alone in a room
with a view of a ship:
H O R I Z O N L I N E S
and trees, water, sky
gathers behind you to push you
farther into the view—
out there, you are a circle
meeting yourself estranged,
a camera focusing on two
people alone in a room—
his hand on her ass
and she’s into it but
breaks away, having to get
ready to go, screen goes fuzzy
and camera zooms in on
the same couple, much
older now, hands clasped
across table, laughing.
I want you to live
a long life—of course,
who wouldn’t? After all,
we’re all here. But
we’re a collection of lines,
breaking. You walk to
another room, see
a different view, the ship gone,
a jagged line of trees
and the open water, camera
focuses on a body laid out
on stone, lying down
but not silent,
at rest but not quiet,
because words won’t leave it
alone, it doesn’t know
how to stop them
even in death, doesn’t know what
not to say, how to shut up.
So as it lies there words
swarm over the body, incessant
and fleeting, biography
breaking down, poodle left
in the yard and a cat
and a game of scrabble as yet
unfinished. Broken toilet
trickling in a dark room.
Can you fix that? I dunno.
Maybe. Step into another room
and there’s that ship again—
H O R I Z O N L I N E S, glimpsed
from the other direction so
all’s land rising behind it,
hills and the school looming
over the harbor. Camera
pans over a road, follows
a car driving through pines
and maples shifting bronze
against reds and greens—
Why are you smiling?
No reason. Looking for the place
you’re going to, not trying
too hard to find it,
no reason strained after,
nothing to find. This
will be one of those
remembered things.