11 October 2026

By Philip Kuepper

I find the bay unbecoming this morning,
not because it isn’t
its usual beautiful,
but because it isn’t becoming.
It is becalmed.
It is still as glue.
And two seagulls float stuck to it;
so, too, a boat.
And were a swimmer to dive in
to it, I intuit
they would swim stuck.
The boat is a rowboat.
Imagine rowing in place,
getting nowhere but where
you already are.
And the bay is the color of glue.
Perhaps it is glue,
and not metaphor at all.
Should I make certain?
Should I go to the bay,
to prove to myself,
whether it is, or is not
glue?
I do.
And, now, I’m stuck.

(3 October 2026)