The young man who wanted to be a poet
Sat beside me on the dock and practiced.
That one sail out in the middle of the lake,
The only one, see it? It's like, like, like, what?
A moth. A moth's wing. A shell. A bit of shell.
I wish I could compose a sharp image for it,
Something haunting, like Williams' yachts.
I mean, look at that one white sail out there
In the whole lake. It's eerie. I just avoided
Rolling my eyes. The daughter from Porlock
Called out from the waves. The young poet,
Distracted, gave up on his similes, but I saw
Lost hands reach up and haul the sail under,
Successfully at last. All gone, yacht. What
Oft was thought but never got expressed.
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