Paper boats floated out and capsized
from the waves your hands
sent, dissolving to pulp before draining
to seed the bottom. You trained them
for a ruction with your slack folding,
assembling the fleet as carelessly as you turn
a calendar page. The illusion is that
they collapsed their bodies
independently. This is how to lose
a friend, to let a thing so fragile
be born in the dry heat
then set it out in damp isolation
without an arm to force it. The boats
request steering. Alone, they sabotage
one another, kissing bow to bow
and drowning in the Hellespont.
I was misled. I supposed
each ketch would sail tomorrow
when the weather improved. You
laugh hungrily when I tell you this
and look away, setting loose another
lousy paper tiger onto the tireless
water. The surface grins as
its belly fills with the phantom shipyard
virgin hulls condemned to the cloudy
depth of lake weeds
never again to sail in the sun above.
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