26 of 30, 2016

Meditations in a Canoe

The motion I was taught
at the shore has failed.

We list on the pine-dark lake,
motherless compass fumbling

for absent north. I was to write
a J in the stream, feather

off, push water from water
and move where intention will.

Paralyzed I try the treble clef,
a physician's scrip for halcyon.

Little circles. Not much else.
Learned things have come

to ruin and I hear laughter
from the docks. This is when

I  boil. Not for pride. Not
for the parched shell

they'll find at float. Physics
has died, truth has died

and somebody laughs.

from a prompt by Irene Unger