Could I get back to shore from here?
If there are waves,
there is only the sound of waves.
I cannot see Michigan
or the water under me.
From the bottom of the lake,
tide comes beneath the mist..
Humidity is the lake
wrapping its arms around the city.
There is nothing out there
on the vaporous waterfront.
It recedes to a thin line.
What is the curvature of the earth?
I kneel on concrete, riddled with sand
crunching in the bottom of my shoes.
Wet stone on my hands
cold as the bottom of the lake.
This is what painting is searching the unseen
unable to move forward
unwilling to take the risk
looking out.
No one has been here before,
kneeling on a dock that stretches out so far.
No one would hear me, were I to fall.
Shaky steps lead me out to the edge.
I hear my breathing like waves
rolling over the beach and under the quay.
Is it night or storm-covered day?
The water is all around me.
The lake is the only light.
Mist as big ask the sky.
The sky is a lake,
sweeping over.
It’s safer ashore, where the trees hide
lights in cavernous foliage
sprinkler systems are percussion
in the quiet haze of empty roads.
This is what painting is staring at the uneven shoreline
studying nothingness
unsure whether to advance
to go into the dangerous space
Silence is only the absence of noise
The gray is deafening.
Is there a horizon?
Is the water separate from the sky?
This is what painting is standing at the edge
no police officer’s flashlight
to call me back to shore
groping for anything
This is all there is,
two feet standing on a metal grate
above waves in a luminous night.
This is all I have.
Without the moon, sky or lake,
I am exactly where I am,
with no past or future,
looking into what cannot be seen.
I am painting every time
I close my eyes.
