Shipwreck, A While Ago
That these subtler parts relate
to one another is, in a way,
natural. If a gull chews a clam,
grazing here, it's only like mud
moving through the ground: only
so many things can happen at once.
The sun that warms them
reflects the clear water.
Should I wish for somebody
to be here and see this with me?
I only have so many wishes.
But somebody has yet to bring or be a shroud
that the clouds forming are the form of.
It was a game of secret continuities
I watched it edge-on, it went from one man
to the next as though taken for granted
The spaces' shapes, between the men,
weren't shaped like men nor should've been
The shapes moved. One man threw the ball.
I thought somebody else had it, not him
I watched for the place where his outline
gave way, inward to the solid man himself,
the inside of that edge, but I couldn't see it
Jon Woodward was born in 1978 in Wichita, Kansas. On the night he was born, a falling star killed the village elder. His first book of poems, Mister Goodbye Easter Island, is forthcoming from Alice James Books.
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