A Basic Sense of Place
(Boy Among Bullrushes)
Moored in mud,
my ship is married to mud:
mud-eyes, ferrite skin, sump
of excavation and sore cove,
bulldozer and fill. Thrust of
mud hands with the soul of mud.
my ship is married to mud:
mud-eyes, ferrite skin, sump
of excavation and sore cove,
bulldozer and fill. Thrust of
mud hands with the soul of mud.
A bellows furnace, up the hill, tracks
to a castle of mud bricks, higher
uphill. With fossils nowhere
in the Queen’s will,
Sleep, sleep mud, sleep.
—and sleep still.
This lullaby
to keep the King’s will.
(nonetheless)
I sometimes feel her near me
and cry. I have a berth inside—a dream berth—
and it is so deep and so cold. Papyrus
and smooth stone. The only banner.
Dear heart, I cannot tell you how it excites me.
At any moment—I have read the stars
a week in advance—when you know
the red boots’ walk over the marsh
(when you know them)
be as still as you can.
Remember.
Do not forget.