From the Fishouse

Doesn’t the eye love the ragged
tear of sky the treetop-shred
horizon The eye— after all—
loves the dizzy
dip of a road: its precarious
tilt towards a ravine
only wrist-deep water
and giant smooth rocks to break
the sky’s fall The eye
loves the bit peach window agape
buildings caught mid-swagger across a skyline
The eye loves unpainted pickets
cracked planks the harlequin the prow
poked out of water
like a chin loves
the evergreen arched over a flood
like an old man looking into the street
for a hand loves a sawed link chewed
rope a birch’s slants But
the eye can’t
love what it can’t
see: the woman
striding tired and brave amid the lobby’s bustle
and under her shirt
a single breast

For Maureen Clyne