Poetry

The spring the Methodist church 
lost its steeple—no pointy tip 
but a kind of cupola, octagonal 

Which face to choose?
Start in the left-hand corner—and speak to it
      as if to a flock of birds

I can imagine you on it. The museum placard
declares it able fit for dozens
with a keel spine longer than these other boats

Brioche. Barouche. And one of them you can still buy, by the dozen,
at the sweets stall in the weekend farmers market; the other
hasn’t been seen in a century (although they tend
to blend, to be conjoined twins, in my mind).

The Analects declare it is best
To withdraw from one’s generation.
Next, to withdraw to another land.