the speckled rime, the tiny bugs, the mud splatter, the planks that run the side, the glide of a curve, the punch of a hole that sealed the facade, dancing nerves to the tune of the rod, a strike on from the bottom to the top, like the moonkiss of a sun burning a pulse in the wrist of hull, the rudder

the pass of the gutter, the slow twist and winter burn, the familiar turn, a migrants score along the wall, inward tempos, the stroke of course tattooed in the slant of a slight fall, the pitch of the rill, the roll drop by drop, nacre dulled, capitulating to gravity, the scorn that bore the lull of fleck held time