I copied my restricted life
down in an image
from whose marks clots

collect—like knots
under clouds,
one flock of them hawking

as low as mist
slung along the shoaling water
that flattens itself over

shallow, rock, cove.
What’s named’s not
known and, pictured, can’t be

negated either. It’s a dead
vast place at
the line where water

silts and in a tongue
of fingers like a basket woven to
hold clods

of earth, one avoidant,
vesselled, only
gestured toward.