WIld Places

A poem.

 By Robert Hackett

Wild Places

I moor my kayak
among the vegetative
continents
of floating lilypads that
claim the rippled mirrorscape
like a stochastic game of go

I moor my kayak and
stand on top of
an ancient, powerful rock
plated in the oxidized coppers
of lichen and moss

Vegetal veins take root
in the interstices
that anchor this granite creature
to the bigger beast
beneath

In the air my dragonfly
waystayers flit
like darting sapphires and
helicopter zebras
amid the whispers and warbles
of treesong birds

The sun explodes
across azure nothing
glinting insectoid armies
lapis-lazuling the lake
singeing my skin

I am not so sure from
whose notebook
I tore this damp sheet
of looseleaf
before I debarked

Or on whose empty can
of Budweiser
dented and dinged
I have barely recorded
these thoughts

No matter
for I have plashed the liquid glass
that separates
by living film
subliminal worlds
And have moored my kayak