I wanted a red hand, a pasting of sunset
over my becoming. There was a rain storm
and I felt the water heave beneath the boat.
If I had asked anything of you, I am sure
it would have been given. But this one thing,
it seems, is beyond you now, as it was back then.
I listened as the carpenter sounded the hull,
mindful of tiny imperfections in the grain:
a swollen tongue; a bitter sand-stained groove.
Homeward eyes said nothing new, as if all we
were was each other. I waited in a chair
in the corner. Come, tell me a tall tale.
From Chroma No 2 (Spring 2005)