The merman who said he didn't believe
In land, that fixed places were all myths,
Insisted he meant this as a compliment.
What's haunting about a rhyme, he sang,
Is exactly that the similarity, that familiarity
Of the new word as the old word's ringing,
Is the ghost of a possibility that some thing
Has survived and returned intact, essentially
Itself, after having gone under, away.
A rhyme and a shoreline and a mind waking
Are all kin, and that kinship's closeness
Gives us the shiver that maybe sometimes
Things evade time, stay still, remain.
Body talked to the merman after a swim
In the bay that felt like just such a return
To a place that kept existing while unseen,
To which body returned to find the same.
You see? said the merman. You know
This is fiction. I honor it by calling it myth.
This passing of the waves that trouble us
Contains such resonant likenesses we think
We are back where we were, when neither
We nor where are what once was here
Under Valhalla, in glittering, doddering sun.
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