As if
the black window
at the solitary pass
from I to this (or you or now)
could let a human mind
slip through the glass
once,
let’s practise seeing water,
looking hard at the harbour,
that detritus of worn
mussel shells, rock ledges
graffitied
with an ecstasy
of lichen, waves
writing out the riddles
of harmonics,
breath held
for a moment
as Elizabeth Bishop
in her posthumous voice
says cold dark deep
and absolutely clear
to the innermost air,
despite the murky distance,
surfacing
grey like a wandering seal,
as our minds try
colluding with existence
in a fantasy
of what we might
be doing, or imagining     
we do, standing at the sheer
bald windows of our corneas,
beside a grey
harbour on a careful
winter day, feeling
sharpened, conjugal
and stuck