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Nether
Some land lives so water can comb it into grids. This is why lowlands tilt still toward the sea. This so we call our canal leaning horse, hat tempting wind, somewhere a tear in linen where the loom bent a heddle. We plant lapis in the middle of begonia boxes hung from our houseboat’s sills. At night the eels snug against our houseboat’s hum, water’s warm hem. We hear them slip itch into our floor. Our houseboat lilts when the bigger boats slide us waves. Our concrete floats. We’re mostly moored to stay. In the damp bank where the ducks hedge weeds, our bikes sleep. We lean toward wind. Our pant legs thin from all the rain on our knees. From here the horizon gauzes above us. We are half hidden by light. We are folds in fog. We stand open on the deck and beckon the silt to settle. We wait for a balance so grand that any flicker of inverse could pull us up to spires.