I never had an earnest craft
I never worked under a boat
I never drifted down the street
Or ever swam and made a joke
I saw it then, a long-ago foresight
I know now I saw it then in glimpses
The present unfolded as dreamt to do
I though it was only a caption to me
I foresaw what has come, here close, and coldly
I dreamed I could not even move
Caught in cold metal, clorthed in tight jacket
Not to be cautioned but to be foretold
Sorrow too—you know, even trenches of ash
Even pain, even terror ag remembered gardens
Graying, I see I know sight would blur
Images drifted, more sharply detaching the sharper they were
So last Tuesday I sat in a lake
I don’t know if a dream or real light
Unreal or true, I don’t know, I sleep awake, now
I less foresee circumstances; I’m maybe more free
I’m blinding to future now, but that past will awake
I was once stoed on a shadeless slope with sage
Or in still green gardens sunken, almost formal, words
With a girl, on grass, drinking and drunk, speaking and sunk
So I never achieved a learned craft
Never stopped near where the chartered river goes
I never drifted out to sea
Or ever professed an earnesst faith
And now I’m almost on the ground
But ever also almost free
And I’d want to climb the climbing tree
But I know I knew then what I’d no longer see
— Gabriel Fenteany, February 13, 2015
