The Paris Review - Fall 2016

is caught and wound around
the bollard. What stays
stays anchored, umbilical,
and open twentyfour
seven.
~~~
A paperboy props
his bike against an alder
that dangles down to
touch the water’s edge, and there
the bike and leaves and boy
are doubled for a moment,
before the wind,
like a palm
across a slate,
erases boy and
leaves and bike,
and all is literal again.
and fair of face
~~~
Nearby, where the silt
drifts between the reeds,
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