 |
It was a day of metal and circles,
perhaps presaged by the orange
full moon of the night before,
torch-cut steel insert hammered
through the sheet glowing on
the floor. Or deck, in boat parlance,
thin to begin with now rusted
needing doubler reinforcement
and stanchion replacements, round
patches welded watertight with 7018,
sun spotlighting through portholes like
stepping stones, shining in the gloom,
rusted roof a sunset in midafternoon.
Cheeseburgers, waterglasses, pilings, too.
The Lucky we drink is round, as are
the bubbles in it. The watering can
and watchface, the iris, lens and pupil
that take it all in. Matt asks
Monte where
he gets his links. "I make them." Coiled
around a cylinder, pulled into a spring,
each snip is a step along a path he can't see,
handwrought bracelets, the snakes within
snakes within snakes all eating their tails,
days within days, sunset, moonrise, the
dome of sky, you,
me, the circle, the tribe. |
