My Mind Will Wander

A poem can only be ten lines long
Unless it’s very good
And then it can only be eight.
My mind will wander. The better
The verse the more the images will cling
To the cells of my brain like little viruses
Steering their way in. I read Engles
On Vivaldi and before the girl looks back
I’m in another autumn on a narrow lake
Flecked by short white brushstrokes of light
With that cold wind pushing at my face
The sound of a little outboard motor, some birds
Behind me before I can look up
Almost never a splash that might be a fish.
I know.