looking at you, body

Katherine Kinkel

bound, in a glass box,
in eight feet of water,
your hair fans.

did you forget the key
in your pocket?


the whale may have been, is
a symptom of the sea you lost.

for a day, into night
without a ship
you floated on the coffin
of the body of your friend—

I conceded you above mind, then.


in John Singleton Copley’s painting of the men in the boat
and the shark under

you’re the Whistler nocturne that won’t be painted for another century
but will be better loved.


when a thought is set out undone
in a small boat on a green sea
and singing happens
you’re a distant mountain,



I don’t believe in the goodness
of what moves you.


take out the key. swallow it.