Stilled as in image, at dawn sliding into
blue harbor, boats clang, where does he
the man I imagine gripping several ropes
return from. Is he conflicted, does he
perceive the sky oscillating like
a dimmer machine, a mouth, a war, language
not declaring its most
effective self, bellum grazing ever
nearer to beauty, a possible apotheosis how
what is left of sense
is comfort. Not inebriated much anymore,
I rented a lawn to stand in with you, crueler
was always singing to our mutual forks,
knives. Our translation
of a subject drones
on unblinking, something black for him
returning, his forearms there laid
themselves down, ships gone out another
pale-plated night.