Work

Pushing off on her back out Into the fishpond’s cold Archaic glitter, my naked wife Could not have guessed how High she rode into the noon Sky, a brightened polestar Gliding out between nothing And nothing, between a sun- Lit vacancy and its ancient, Reflected, weightless Hour unrippling back From the sedges. The just- Cut grasses fumed around her Like gasoline, a few Spent bees dozed above The compost, and in my arms The steady thrum of the mower Carried on, though I’d Shut it off to sit down And watch: but so fond of her, The water parted to take Her back from that aimless Sky, where light- Headed and slippery as a star She turtled under the still Simmering Indian summer To startle the sunfish At the margins—then punctured Back with a blow-frog’s gasp, An amazed stranger Conjured into the world By a willow shadow Spread out on the grass Like an extravagant Old World gesture no One believes in anymore. On that stalled shore she climbed Back out among the cool And slightly washed- Out leaves to towel off, Put on her clothes, and shake Her hair out in no time Which slips off into the past, Or future, into nothing But the pure unburnished hum- Drum of that moment, that place, From which we turned away Eventually and went back to work.