The Boat-Header Poem by Henri Cole

I saw you
unexpectedly
on the street today.
Though it was midday
your eyes were dilated,

and you seemed
almost electrically
charged with thought,
with an increased
speed of speaking:

"I garden, I grill meat,
I prowl the bars."
But I was having
difficulty listening.
Your teeth were growing.

A muscle
spasmed against
my diaphragm;
I needed
a bag of ice.

Still, I could see
those rooms
with perfect clarity:
the coat rack
and bureau,

the dinner plates
with congealed meat,
the flea market Piranesi,
and the long mirrors
like camera lenses

freezing us
as the boat-header
gave you his final
thrusts, preparatory
to the cutting-in.