I will say this outright.
Today, walking along the Charles,
I stopped where the path
rises high above the river
and spent some time thinking.

How much nicer it would be
to drown in warm, clear, sparkling
tropical oceans, sinking past orange fish.
I stopped again when my feet
were feet from the river's edge
and spent some more time thinking.

How unpleasant it would be
to wash up on shore
next to plastic orange caps
and other bits of garbage.
Who would ever admit that?

Yes, I am thinking about it.
I will say this outright, again
to anybody who isn't already bored.
I am bored with myself, incapable
of a beautiful image, some hidden,
cryptic sign that, properly read, reveals

The nature of my intentions.
This isn't poetry. The poetry
is in the note, beforehand,
or in what a brother
might write during lonely months.

Afterwards, even in the husband's prayers,
shouted angrily at God, the same
rote sentences will come alive again.
As for me, and the river,
this isn't poetry. It doesn't matter
whether it was sunny or gray.

Whether the water looked blue
or brown, whether my eyes
were open or shut, whether
I screamed or was silent,
I would try to swim.

Sinking at once to the bottom,
I will say this outright, only
because the moment I stopped feeling
the wind, the moment I felt
the water, is the same moment
I first believed this isn't poetry.

Copyright © 2000 President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Fri, Oct 6, 2000.