Oyster Boy Review 11  
  April 1999
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» Levee 67



Thomas Meyer

This hardly scratches the surface
Of these white, white wedges.
They skate black lakes, Superior,
Pacific, their sheets to the wind.

I am not reminded of silk,
Loie Fuller, Doris Humphrey,
Or Isadora.  Rather a
More angular leaning into

Things.  Something less ceremoni-
Ous.  Natural to us.  Not so fin
de siècle.  Mysterious,
Yes.  We end the millennium

How?  Silently.  Who could have guessed
So many would have come out to sail
At dawn?  Or have they come across
Some huge ocean, this full of grace.