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.