JACK CHRISTIAN


                                     



CHILD IN A BOAT WITH GEESE




In the festival of pollen,
in the majesty of being alone,
I fastened to the gunwales of summer,
so happy and misplaced,
and walloped by light,
with shorebirds to mock my carelessness,
and its impression,
my scattered self-portrait rippling below.

I'd picked a flower and beheaded it
to see if I could float the bloom
on the puddle in the boat-hull
on the garden-pond in the hill-park
on the earth.

Successful, I said to no one
I wouldn't want to die like this,
and nodded in agreement with myself.

They will say of me while I lived
the clouds did what they wanted.

I thought of weaving myself into
a wide-brimmed hat.

Such is the purchase of sunburn, I thought.

But then the breeze inflated
and I murmured toward the dock.








TYPO 32