four splashing boys cleave ankle-deep, arrowed
avenues through dense islands of algae.
With sunbrowned backs bent to noon, they drive nets
through water, in steady crescent sweeps, and
slowly scoop up worlds of plankton and scum.
Holding their catches skyward, water seeps
from sheer fabric of nets and sends shivering
ripples as it drips back into the lake,
and pleased with the take, they step to the shore
in reverent silence, kneel on the bank, offer
their loads on the face of a sun-hot stone.
The boys grin and squint in the radiant
blaze of summer, affirmed in divine child-
hood as they watch the world sizzle and squirm.
Poetry, "Between A and B" --Mr. Kirk
to travel from A to B? A
grade school story problem. On paper,
it seems so straight. A matter
of flat arithmetic.
Let’s say he traveled by air.
And imagine that
or some bolt that held him aloft
And the whole thing came unwinding down
like the secret to a trick.
Would the story end there, or perhaps
might it begin.
The topography of between is
the real riddle
and as charted as may be,
will never give up the ghost.
We may cling to prepositions to keep us
afloat: above and beneath; over and under; but they
too remain unheedingly mute. From up to down is a riddling between
a billion times more frightening than B.
Let’s get back to the problem.
The answer is three hours. Or five. Or nine.
But are we anywhere different
from where we began?