28 April 2019

By Philip Kuepper

I row out into
Homer’s seascapes.
I let his waves take me
to whatever horizon
he has realized across the canvas.

I row with the dory man,
a mask of anxiousness
etching his face,
as he looks to the left at the fog
coming fast. The shore is far.
The water is chop,
chop, like lips curled in snarls.

The fish he has caught shines
in the ghost-breathed light,
its skin licked spectral,
a food to feed death?

I row to beat death
to shore, row to beat
the odds the fog wagers,
the fog throwing die
on the gaming table
of the water.  I row,
throwing sevens in my mind.

(31 March 2019)