i'm looking at a big oil he did 40 years ago,
grey top, yellow/turquoise bottom, peach interior,
dark striations, thick and thin, some trouble
in the upper left corner, thinking that's my lake,
my far Canada, the storm i sailed out into
that flipped us, Rick Morrow climbing
up my back, sudden heavens, no preservers,
paddle floating off, the turbulence and exactitude
of a true predicament, not really a boy anymore,
my sweet Rhodes filling up fast
in a sinking blur of lines and sails
the guard watching me scribble in the chair
in the round museum, feeling de Kooning
work it up, getting the light right
the year we tipped, the kid saving himself
how he knew
lake and paint,
dilemmas of a good rescue
heating up the glaciers all those years,
for my run to get the weather