Of the one about whom
nothing has been said,
whose very name exists in versions
either strange or common,
slapped into shape or shadow-
boxing the beachfront mist
as a means, as an end,
the date and then the motive.
To be so perfectly in error,
flattening earth’s rare bubble
into syndrome, self-portrait
with pelican and stopwatch.
First the fading color, then
control reduced to grip,
itself slipping as one circles,
down and deep, drawing
nearer on each inward turn
through murk and hollow green,
the caress of catfish whiskers
tipped with red mud,
and at the bottom, a glimpse
of metal trimmed with weeds,
first glimpse and last thing seen.