[return to author's index]

Jim Kacian, USA

miles out at sea

in the moonless night, spray from the paddles, waves breaking over the bow . . . without bearings, miles of undifferentiated coast, no lights to be seen

without islands in the dead center loneliness

followed a pilot whale out of Louisdale channel, out into the dark—knew what i was doing, did it anyway

as if it were the same me who first saw it

in the darkness simply to be snatched—by wave, whale, god-knows-what—the unknown made manifest, bodied in its own element, and into which we dimly see . . . no differences out here—the horizon black all around as well as above and below, six directions of darkness

night clouds gone the supply of infinity

wind has died but still a frail voice to it, swells lift and carry the small boat what feels a great distance but probably not more than in daylight, hardly at all

dead reckoning the moment the tide reverses

nearing i make out timbered jaggedness, wash of breakers on big rock—somewhere in there a beach, a tent, a firm place for a foot

different again tonight the same stars' wobble

[return to author's index]