27 August 2018

By Philip Kuepper

In the front yard of the clapboard house,
set on a low rise overlooking the river,
lay an eight, face down,
atop sawhorses,
an eight out of water,
an eight out of its natural
habitat, my eyes drawn to it,
almost perversely, for its being
out of place,
when, to my mind, it should be
upright,
atop water,
rowers set
to rowing it
on the river of my poet’s logic.

21 August 2018