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Paul and Bennett

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And Paul.  Taking the quiet oars, the quiet 
thump of the oars, glides, with a single 
stroke that interrupts the water’s sleep, 
already piercing the fog, dissolving 
into its soft canvas, a shape subsumed 
into its own shadow.  And Bennett

waving in comic slow motion, 
half turned in the back of the boat, 
knees toward Paul, his face toward their mother, 
calling goodbye as if a mile away, 
though but a single stroke, now two, 
fading deeper into the vague canvas, 
shades subsumed, merging.  And she

standing on the damp cold wood of the dock, 
feeling the rotted ribs of its grain beneath 
her bare feet, wants to laugh but cannot, 
would wave but does not do that either, 
watching the pierced fog heal, the interrupted 
water return to its waiting dream, finds 
regret out of all proportion to their leaving.  Sees

Bennett’s face turn away, a pale dial, 
turning toward Paul and the smooth 
deliberate roll of his shoulders, pulling 
back on the oars, another stroke, 
and beyond, the indefinite cloud 
that is gathering them in, concealing them, 
Paul and Bennett, shades merging, 
more shape than substance now, fading.  Hears 

Bennett’s quiet voice, the sound of it only, 
the words indistinct behind the vague canvas, 
and in reply, a low laugh, Paul’s, 
coming before and after the rhythm of the oars, 
words that, lacking form, carry all meaning 
in their tone, in the way they cross the water, 
leaving definition and syntax behind, 
returning to stillness.  Their sound

dissolving on the canvas before her, 
subsumed, Paul and Bennett, 
falling into a gathering cloud, 
a dream as it slips the conscious mind 
more real for being half forgot, 
all that she would keep but cannot.