Trueing

                       is what I 

imagine the man beneath 

the suspended sailboat 

is doing as he fiddles 

with the rudder on the dock

beside the river 

                    and what the city 

buildings manage this morning  

pinning down the cloudless 

pinafore of sky so clear so airy 

it could disappear

                        trueing is why 

my husband jogs and why I revisit 

the Book of Job  where God turns 

gambler in some backroom 

with the devil himself  

                      Trueing is what 

the wild willow used to do 

for me on my path 

in the city fens  its bodily 

expression of turbulence 

and grace  

         how I miss its red tangle 

and yellow-green frizz 

the way it would true me