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.