Euclid was alone at his poor supper. He witnessed
his two eyes wandering
to the point of collision, all of this
a simple reflection in a bowl of soup: the natural
triangle that worries itself
into the brow with strong oarsmen
pulling Euclid down the river that seems all wrong.

The rocking of the boat in the cold water
promises nausea—a white crane flying at night
impossibly low over them—he thinks, shit,
there must be some mistake.
There was vertigo and a fall in a stone tub.
An open pit burial
with a red false flag of fish bladder.He asked for a cake of blue thistle, being alone,
instead they gave him fog and a now burning boat.
I said he was alone and you’re asking but what about
those two oarsmen—well, you know
death is an unreliable narrator at ease
with the last arc minutes
of Mrs. Vesica Piscis, the great mother
who is alive within us all.
Smile. Please, smile. I know.