Nancy Davies

Boats
October 20, 2000

 

Boats

sit on the river like boats drawn by children,

white

triangular

motionless.

 

Within

a person maybe two, stunned into waiting

crouches

motionless.

I can see their hats don't move

nor their hands, nor sails.

 

On the bridge I move quickly;

a man with a camera moves

while the last light moves

rhomboid

splendid

and somber.

    

The glass buildings turn red.

Everything turns

but the white

boats in their tracks,

as if the wheel of their season

had fallen and smashed.

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