There were names I had visited I never
Once revisited again. I don't think I bothered
To tell myself in 1983, this may be the last
Time I ever see Ninole. In 1987, I was fine
Turning my back on Shakespeare & Co.
And short-term employer, George Whitman.
I didn't fly out of Moscow wondering, in '96,
If I would ever see the Novodevichy Monastir
Again. But again, I tottered at the end
Of another summer at the lake, a tenth,
Wondering if I would ever come close to this
Experience in some future version of life.
Only this year, I thought not. A spar
From some unknown carpentry project
Somehow carried into the lake, who knew
When, bumped up against the portable dock
And then floated out again. Floated in,
And then drifted out again. The shoreline
Up high at the spring water mark bristled
With driftwood lodged there and left. I left.
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