A kneeling man keels in the shallowbank,
In the fish pond, where the fish always were.
He elbows in for no one left to thank.
Within whose walls and burden due his rank
And memory, to whom should he confer?
A kneeling man keels in the shallowbank.
In the house he can wash inside his tank,
And nothing in to watch or even stir,
He elbows in for no one left to thank,
Beneath Helen’s breast, where skin was wiped blank,
Or in the marshes where never with her,
A kneeling man keels in the shallowbank
His fingertips test the threshold, inside dank
contents of ether, just water to her;
He elbows in for no one left to thank.
Thinking of currents against which his lank
Body could curl – or turn, and not stir,
A kneeling man keels in the shallow bank,
And reaches down for no one left to thank.
