By Jan Wiezorek
I see now that mystery chops at water.
I see now those fractal oars in the sky.
I cannot see fear on my face, but I feel
flint move like slow motion. I could skip
along this path of stones and trip right
into a rite of terror—slipping off the pier
into the depths, just feet from the boathouse.
What does an edifice do when trapped under
Grand Trunk West bridge? I think I can see
myself hauling paddles over to a saviour
who sculls. If you cross yourself the wrong
way, it looks like you’re telling someone
to row this way; a gesture buoys me.