Clouds so low they move
against themselves in parallax,
putty gray on an icy blue.
The boat moves too
on top of inky waves
bouncing in the sprays
that should feel chill
but somehow don’t;
October sun a fine companion.
And they go on in horizon tilts—
the furthest ones to cumulus
infinities and suddenly
there’s something I can see
as God
or anyway it’s not
an empty dark or angry dark
but something stark I’m part of;
a piece of some blue process
that goes on without me sure,
but I was there a moment
nonetheless.
