Coming Back for Air

I have the frame that held the picture of you
from Toronto. When you looked, closely, emptiness.
Even the blind can see, you said, past beauty.
I imagine wells.
I see them running under the roots of
the tamarack trees and upwards your gaze
floating the way two stones can loosen
and jet in the cold and fast currents.
You had been making your way upriver,
walking among shoals recalling the feeling
of being carried back to something unexpectedly
distinct, like suddenly recognizing a thing you
always knew, or an inexplicable moment of joy,
or love, and you decide all at once
to dive very deeply and to move beneath
the muscled spirits of those currents.
When you come back for air, the river is
frozen, like a mirror, and the frame is
white and empty, and in it are your eyes.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.