September 7

An edge. Even today, kayaking,
even on water, in wave-derived

furrows, patches of wind,
a division between like and not

like. No, not exactly that, not here
and there, either. An edge contains;

convex, concave, even drawn flat
it makes two from one and holds each

one fast. On the east side of the lake
I paddled ahead beyond the reach

of your voice, trying to beat a hefty
wake. An edge contains, it could

constrain, but even then it has two
sides, trapped and free, though never

advertising which is which,
a choppy spot, a sheltered cove

where spindly docks prolong
the shore, or whatever else waits beyond

the curvature of land–

OPTIONAL POETRY