Tree through the bow
of a ship
run aground.

Where the channel
shallows out
and the church

shadow’s cut in half.
Toward the bridge
with ox eyes to let high water

through. Stones I’d crossed
but never seen. Swans
in the mosquitoes’ crib,

heron like a sink pipe
come alive. On the way to
the roses called out in Latin

behind the sand-traps.
Past the carp fishermen, ramp
where my ferry ticket turned

to bookmark. On the last day
of summer, the sun,
a lichen. The fall: punctual.

Co-winner of the 2014 Winter Anthology Contest