Not Speaking of You
Tragedies come in the hungry hours
The Voyage Out, Virginia Woolf, 1915
I spend the summer in the cradle of a boat
the sky and sea the kind of black that Manet understood
the reds and blues the yellows obscured by crayon
in this little skiff I have no compass and all the stars
are closed for any business with the living
ink spills across the words I could have written for you
the months drag their nets behind them
a brimming catch that can’t be landed
I cast my fingers into water to grab at language
though the thought alone of speech is blinding
on the turn of this night is another where my sail fills with air
the moon writes its signature on blue-white waves and there Godrevey
her intermittent call breaks silence not repulsing
but reaching out across the black to speak of you to me