I’m enamoured of a contour made by the mind
when it comes to an understanding. A woman with query
in her voice is gratefully enlightened
by an answer from her friend. O, she says,
and her O riddles its way through extravagant intonation,
rising steeply — in imitation of strong doubts —
then falling buoyant with relief
back to clarity’s sand floor.
I thought: She might have been standing in ocean
up to her armpits, first elevated by a transit wave
against gravity, before allowing herself to be dropped —
thrilled and informed — back in a fresh calm’s certified wake.
Chinaman Creek 