12 July 2026

By Philip Kuepper

The shell flashed past,
a streak of light,
through the blinding bright
sunlight burning white
the blue river. Nothing
was distinct, all detail
erased. The rowers,
assumably present,
I could not see,
caught up, as they were,
in the shell of light
enclosing them.
I heard the blades of their oars
score the flesh of the water.
Did I hear them breathing,
in unison, or only imagine
I heard it, knowing it would be
rhythmically present?
So all I ever did see of them
was a flash of light
in a flash of light,
as though they hadn’t even
appeared.

(21 June 2026)