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for Bernard
is when your car ends facing backwards
on the wrong side of the road
when the wind beats your umbrella
till its insides all hang out
when the water takes your little boat
and spins it like a plate.
It’s like a song reversed, a church
constructed widdershins
to face the falling sun, the day
next week or sometime soon
you’ll take a truth and twist it,
turn a child to face the wall
or force a man stark naked
to get down and lick the floor.
It’s the dream which has you driving
down exactly the wrong street
as you race to reach your boat
before it sails.
It’s the wind along the western quay,
the voices in its throat
the seaman on the closing doors,
the words you hear him shout
I’ll wait. I’ll wait all night
if need be. I can wait.
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