Every move I make is gestured
by a slight prediction:
I go down on my side

and roll up the hill; a cloud
wants me, so another cloud does.
But when I look to their faces I don’t

know them. Like satellites or cousins, their part
is small and dubious in the all-there-was that was
the past: back on that brown lake,

the fisher was the painter, and the rod
the same length as the brush—
the landscape bore upon the silver boat

which, with its small hatch for fish, configured
the thingness of the world—that blue and green
polluted frog, full of magma, soon to croak.