At night on the water
Scared of the taste of
Ripstik on glass.
Distracted, basting a
button-mash class,
mad dash for the door.
I think we should leave;
outside there’s a floor,
butane rain watering more
westerly winds than we’d
catered before. In the canoe,
You wiggle and wobble, lose
a new shoe. Almost, you
topple. Sinking through ink
by a sponge’s hovel, he
screams, don’t let go!
But you have already let go.
I hold a moon in my hand and wish upon it:
May we remain when the last needle falls.
Listen to that woodpecker;
can you hear the wind? All over
these acres, lives
begin.
A sentence is served,
and copied word for word. And
if we search with feverish
thirst, I think we’ll find
a third.
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