from: Atlas

—Glenn Bach

at sunrise when daily tide. Look

for flourishes

dislodged. Of fine white

the sound beaches. That the

undertow is light

a tract of sand and mud

itself is large bold and pretty

fishes there by the millions

nothing to waste in the estuary

a nutrient trap a protein

plant. Close to shore

to the cleaned shells

of winter flounder and tomcod

of hogchoker

the way of the boats

that can never be stilled

to disturb even a blade of grass

in itself the moment a magnificent world

The boat that beached

on the rocks

of Lake Michigan

teetered and was torn,

towed away

and how exactly did the Fonz jump—

start the jukebox with his fist

(what forces aligned)

and did he ever

actually comb his hair?

The ribs

of the infrastructure,

the rigging of a ship—

we have yet to notice

the life-sized statue placed

next to the river,

but we are assured

that photos taken with the figure

will be posted everywhere

—a whale’s bones—

in lighted boats

partygoers drifting

in the river free of freeze

will glimpse the back of his head

and bronze leather jacket

—white lines of cloudy ice

in the sky.

Originally from Southern California, GLENN BACH now lives in the Doan Brook watershed of Cleveland, Ohio. His major project, Atlas, is a long poem about place and our (mis)understanding of the world. Excerpts have appeared in jubilat, Otoliths, Plumwood Mountain and others. He documents his work at glennbach.com and @AtlasCorpus.