4

I’m rowing slowly through the cattails,

my huge gold rings moving elliptically

toward and away from me. An oaken fatigue.

A sense of brevity, like a plain curtain.

I’m visited briefly by a math nymph

(babydoll dress) who brings me her new

cone, calling it the mother of all radii.

She is a flash of light on the water.

Now I’m alone, oars trailing — a party

where four kinds of cake are served.