Big water in the Midwest—think of that
against the sprawl of wheat cut across Ontario
on warm October nights. Under finger-clouds
layered, slate on charcoal on black,
water babble spits frilly breakers onto sand.

Again and again in the dark, blubs of foam
are little white night-boys shooting by on sleds,
spraying snow against a concrete pier.

Or maybe the breakers become white puppies
swarming and scooting across dark linoleum
after magical prey until they run themselves
into age, tongues gone snake-forked, weary-white.

Yet they slurp against concrete and sand,
fierce and silly, frightening and bland,
no conch, no seaweed or salt, no peril, it seems,
no stink, no dolphins arcing out beyond

these bubbles, languid flapping, some piss-noise
swallowing the silent, hacked acres
from here to Saskatchewan until the land
lurches, staggers to a thrill of earnest mountains,
reaching, as foolish against this sky

If you would like to read rest of this poem, please order your print copy of the Potomac Review issue #43 now.

 

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