Phrasis

Stilled as in image, at dawn sliding into

blue harbor, boats clang, where does he

the man I imagine gripping several ropes

return from. Is he conflicted, does he

perceive the sky oscillating like

a dimmer machine, a mouth, a war, language

not declaring its most

effective self, bellum grazing ever

nearer to beauty, a possible apotheosis how

what is left of sense

is comfort. Not inebriated much anymore,

I rented a lawn to stand in with you, crueler

was always singing to our mutual forks,

knives. Our translation

of a subject drones

on unblinking, something black for him

returning, his forearms there laid

themselves down, ships gone out another

pale-plated night.