CHORES

   here
in the sun
   near the willows
                out of the north wind
behind
the old green boathouse
                but still in sight
of the waves
                    swarming
           beyond
the breakwater
                         I lie
   suspended in
the dazzling nest
   of my decaying limbs

I do my chores
                 raking
           glistening weeds
     ripped by black storms
searching
                in tangles
   of red root and shadow
          for dead painted turtles
                 and dead sunfish
splicing
                 frayed rope
    on the creosoted dock
and picking
                 bits of blue glass
    out of the clear shadows