Chair, where she awaited our visit,
wrapped in a blanket, beneath the faint old print:
lion on his haunches, watching the sunrise.
Or was it sunset? Depends where you sit.

                                                        Chariot
of a chair in which to stuff yourself
before taxi-ing slowly into line;
wobble unsteadily about, like a plumb bob,
no longer each a person separate.

Hawthorne, coming out to the river
one midnight, alone, still in his coat, thought,
“It’s like plunging down into the sky.”
                                                               Splash.
Try to scribble that in the dark.