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This poem is taken from PN Review 197, Volume 37 Number 3, January - February 2011.

Three Poems Mark Dow
I Said I Admit It
     after Baudelaire

As autumn days elongate, the twilight tapers deliciously.
Reddish-gold pierces with a sort of infinite vagueness
through the solitude. In the untouchable blueness of the
blue, a tiny sail shudders. The horizon is monotonous, and
existence is unanswerable. It goes right through me, or I it
– either way, what I call I loses sight of me in the spaciousness
of it. It thinks but it thinks without getting wrapped
up in the need to get tied down to every goddamn thought.

Anyway, whether the thoughts come from me or get
released by the things getting thought about, sometimes it
gets to be too much for me. Which means that the will
crashes against the swells of anticipation. A tingle lingers, a
tickle of foam, and pretty soon there’s nothing to do but
watch anxiety tremble as it tries to register the arrival of

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