pressed between blue pages a few hours

on our old boat which is not ours my leg

over the bow you in the stern with the kids

in the stern I’m reading poems you’re not

the sky a depression of noon wilting

on our way back from the island we did not

reach    the boys drag bits of pita through

some dip argue the last cola we are not

arguing now I said what I thought

you said what you thought and I won it’s not

nice what do you want I said and you don’t know

it’s been so long so long since I even

wondered you said pinned here in this book almost

no wind none the water glass like old glass

that much ripple that much distortion two

small sailboats go by portside one red-hulled

the other white it’s not our boat your

father’s gone     days don’t get more beautiful

than this the white hazed blue a few big clouds

we could not stand it  any bluer and

the land rolls up away the glass the glass

reflects the sky thank god thank god we

cannot see ourselves    for home we’re headed

nothing violent nothing shattered

glass the surface just before us always

smooth always untouched and when we

mar it it repairs itself with no help from us

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