How to tell
cut rock
from the natural wall
of the gorge?

Or the ducks
from the moorhens
plopped atop the screen-sheen
of gorge water?

Their wakes enclose
the lake in wide
parentheses.
The swimmers swim

and chatter with a
naturalness
whose opposite is
what you are

and which therefore
is all that you
desire. Their towels
flutter

like flags held to
change, flutter and
fly. What,
what is it to be

born
in that bright nation? And not
to be—only to guess at it

and, guessing, have
to reach toward—what
tragic blessing?