Coxswain

My silence grants the rowers
their rest. On bad nights we feel
the winds' bite. On good nights
they're a balm. What casually falls
casually arrives: remnants of
unnamed stars. My shout throws
a switch. The city flinches. Nearing
the headwaters, we turn. Desire
expands before us even as distance
extends behind. This crew, these
unsown seeds in a pod ... floating—
in us are the woods.