On standing in front of Soroll’s Retour de la pêche, le halage de la barque…
[The return from fishing, the towing of the boat]
Saltwater washes over where I stand on the tile floor,
blue inhales, lazy horizons, skirt hems along bare ankles.z
I found comfort in the thought of hoof marks in improper places–
like seaweed, like hardened sand on the shoreline.
Horses might ride through shallow waves,
their manes tangled, matted, browned by sunlight. z
Room 23 presents a gray spectacle.
The cloud that passes over the sun and stays there,
the colorless sky on a warm day, bearably dark.
The titanium hook holds the sea at a careful fulcrum,
preaching burlap bags, makeshift rafts,
knotted ropes that prickle the pads of my fingers.z
The light melts like gold through white canvas,
bounces from the sunhat that the man never wore.
It warms my face as I tilt my chin,
upward for the sake of looking upward,
in hope of the saltwater feeling on my neck,
of falling backward into cold ocean,
of something overwhelming,
maybe.
