Coxwain

My silence grants the rowers

their rest. On bad nights we feel

the winds' bite. On good nights

they're a balm. What casually falls

casually arrives: remnants of

unnamed stars. My shout throws

a switch. The city flinches. Nearing

the headwaters, we turn. Desire

expands before us even as distance

extends behind. This crew, these

unsown seeds in a pod . . . floating—

in us are the woods.

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Copyright © 2011 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission