THE HANDS OF THE BARGEMAN'S

The hands of the bargeman’s
hands inside my hands –
We are moving through an ancient
table of contents. Out of our heads

comes the now-hoof, the now-hoof stamping
always from the front of our heads.

The bargeman watches my
sideways anthology
digging out from the skull that I carry.

It is a formidable sight:
the eye-socket and knee cap
wanting like below-grass-moles to meet.

I am a little afraid. If I touch
the antler, then I am the antler,
twice as long as it even, but I’m also
just the antler’s dream.

Out of the back of our knees
the bargeman wimples
his glowing ropes onto this present time’s slush.

There is a beaver swimming beneath us.
Compilations of our lives
reflect in the cedar branches he dives for,
toothing his dam with the rudder’s timed creak.

Damn, I think. Even though I’m
the hero, the story still’s going
to say that I die.

We look down. The oar-handle
in our hands -- between my fingers --
rings with the threshold of its
not even being.