Spring 1989 • Vol. XI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1989 |

Jersey Fog

I Out of night fog a man oaring (not interested in fish) a gray dinghy. Through the hull-made paths in the grasses, in a place of inter- section where thing and word merge, the wind slid in the rushes. The root-knees and loops barely breathing. On the surface the lisping of the maggot's bubbles breaking. As the spikes and bristles brushed my shoulders and arms, the reeds' piths split; there, in the clarinet's incipience a spindle of air rising. I rowed over the larval jellies. Heard a foot in the sludge—a ground suck where the fiddler crabs nest, an Armenian hach, a Saxon kh II From the tip of Sandy Hook the beam's gloom spoked the air as if the wicks still burned in spermaceti. In the wave-washed paths of lobsterbacks, in the reservoir garrisoned by the blood- money of Hessian muskets unraveling in the parry of quick smoke, as ciphers of powder thinned to zeroes where empire cleaves empire— eight sides of junk— stone stood in th

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