Poetry
Regatta
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