Jerusalem, New York

​

Poets are queer fish who must be

allowed to go their own way.

A little town by the lake

where the waters lap

the shore of the history

of revolution reminds me

of where my friends live:

Albion, Michigan.

One makes books

and engraves the images

that make the ordinary

something divine.

The other makes the tools

that make the books.

I push my kayak into

the water. I call it my O

boat. It leaks. It could sink me

in “a New York minute.” If

I could, I’d replace it. And if

I live long enough, I will.

But for now, I cast a line

hoping for something

to bite, and something

to hold onto.

Sources