Jetty

If you were a god
Or godlike critic,
A literary

Godlet, you could list
All the things you like
About this jetty,

This white-washed cement
Rectangle, wildflowers
Growing over it,

Small, concrete boat dock,
Concrete as a poem
About a motel

Beside an airport
By Jane Kenyon—each
Physical airplane

Deftly transfigured
By comparison
To more physical

Things and beings—whales,
Foxes, basketball
Players, women’s skirts—

The whole tied up tight
With a wry comedown
About great shadows

In a parking lot.
This jetty’s crumbling
Concrete, not a lot,

Jutting its shadow
Into the waves while
Lake water’s rising.