A swan drifts beside milky 
banks of the Great Way, 
dropping occasional feathers 

which eddy down, drop, 
hesitate, and drop. 
Someone out walking hushed

roads to untumble her mind 
catches one in each hand. 
She combs the air and rises 

to grip the paddling 
swan’s webbed foot. 
Out in the uncurtained 

sky, a white wind whirls up, 
blows through the eyelashes 
of stars, rocks the swan and its 

rider into deeper black 
water. Somewhere below, 
in the forehead of a stone 

house, an insomniac
with a telescope makes patient
notes in a worn, red book.