The Fishermen at Guasti Park

In the first days of summer 
the three elms, those slightly 
opened fans, unfold 
their shadows across the river. 
Two dogs arrive exhausted, 
tongues dripping, and settle 
down near the frogbait jars. 
Aiming their poles 
toward the center of water, 
the Sunday fishermen watch 
the light pirouette off
the opposite shore. 
Their wives peel onions, 
open wine, do their nails. 
Most of the men think 
as little about gravity 
as they do about war and 
the weightlessness of time. 
How could they know that 
it is only the single, collective 
thought of their abandoned childhoods 
that keeps the world afloat?


Noon. I can connect nothing with nothing. 
Perhaps even chaos is cause for celebration.

And perhaps the astrologers are right when they chart 
one disaster, one propitious night, one happenstance

of glory to the next so they accrue like an alphabet 
in the primer of each person's life. I read my horoscope

each day, searching for the solitary clue, the sign 
signalling my journey's halt, when I might look up

at last into the stars, connect-the-dots--see, at once, 
the bright Virgin standing steadfastly like a silver ship

docked among the midnight swarms, her left hand 
to me, as if nothing floats between us but the world.