by Jeffrey Jullich

Revisions from an Unfinished Poem

I sat by the motor end, as you lifted the fishing net.
In the finespun daylight, it was a variegated
Grid of threads and gaps. I will never forget
How the cells of your skin were tessellated.

                      I forget
Most of the day, but your skin is a perfect mosaic

On the walls of my brain.

At this point in my memory, a fog
Rolls in, with the consistency and thickness
Of peasoup. The inlet became a bog
And our breath, lost in the hazy sickness

Of a mental block. Do I now understand
What it is to be a perfect vacuum, a hole
In space? The boat reappears, and you stand
There. Nothing has happened. The boat has placed a variole

On the water.

And the years are replicated.

                                Do I now understand
What it is to be a perfect vacuum, a bit
Missing out of the hole?

                                            The boat has left a single pit.