In the Wake of a Swimmer's Hair.

Clipping an even V from the curl of the snood, A ripple splits at the touch of the ness of your knot; As Nazca's Psi and baroque N's on globes Tilt their vertices at the water's edge, so Your fingers ply the index of this wedge; Your hair divides the coffered tide: your form bobs Neatly with fish, avid in their flux: You, Pilot— Pointing clearly, cleaving wash and wood. Equal amniotic ciphers, a Lake, and you asail in perfect algebra.