Riding along the seawall
on the south slopeof False Creek
at 1:45am
after fireworks boatparade
has subsided,
the silence is surprising
and soothing
and a grand contrast
to last week’s Indyhell.

The water,
high,
mildly ripples
when my face is filled
with a misting ofwater.

It seems the parksboard
has underground sprinklers
in the knolls
at the elementaryschool,
turned on tonight.

I merely rode through
where the wind wastossing
the spray my way.

But for one second,
while reorientingto the ACtual event,
I was no longer alive,
I was baptized intoa new dimension
of simultaneous explanation:
where a False Creekorca pod
rises and exhalesfor me,
and Puck-like angelsdescend
with my houseplantspray bottle
lost in my last move,
and light clouds divebomb
to expire
selflessly
on my cheeks,
and someone’s perpetuallyturned up
the nozzles in Safeway’sproduce section
to catch us unaware,
and my friend in thefront of the kayak
—while not TRYingto spray me—
mists me every timeher paddle goes in
[no complaints],
until the tch tchtch of the sprinkler
ruins the reverie.
 

Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley 
08.01.02, 3:00 am