14 October 2018

By Philip Kuepper

I extended my hand
over the low side of the boat,
and felt my fingers being drawn
through the water,
the liquid pressure of water
against my flesh,
a soft numbing feeling
radiating through my being.

In my mind I was drawing,
on the water, design,
wholly abstract, like the Arabic script
I had seen on walls in Spain.
And though in reality the water was
clear, my mind turned it
lapis, Army green, the silvery
blue of steel; while when the boat
moved through shadow,
the water turned cobalt.

My mind was in a quiet frenzy
of calligraphic glyphs,
and geometric shapes filled with curves
I drew on the water.
As soon as I drew them,
they disappeared. So much for
the material world, no more
tangible than the illusion of starlight.

The boat was brought
to a halt,
then docked.
A rope tied it fast
to a solid piling.
I stepped onto the sturdy pier
the water lapped at the underside of,
the hungering water that had eaten
away my designs,
the hungering water that ate
at the solid pilings.

(6 October 2018)