Gasworks Park 2022
For V
What to make of the man
crouched beneath the nylon wing,
the wind strong enough
to fill the cherub’s cheek,
too weak to send the man
across the lake. I haven’t seen you
in years, though how to count
the time indoors, contracted,
each day elastic but scuttled
with panic like the man:
his squared jaw, his chalk teeth,
who tucks his knees, soles
nearly grazing the couple
necking in the grass. Where
are the geese, you wonder,
and when we finally wander
down the asphalt path laid into the hill,
there they are, I say, pointing
to the water’s edge, the flock
arranged as if pieces in a game,
as if each to a square, the adults
crisp in rest, the juveniles obscure,
blurry, trundling ashore, the sky
obscure, blurry, blue behind a net
of clouds scudding the sun. I am trying
to remember when I saw you last,
but my memory flutters as if under
a false wing, batted and buffeted,
trying to master with my strings,
my hard and soft plastics, the air.
I give up. There is before
and there is now. We are walking,
side by side, always it seems, uphill.