The White Boat

By | 1 July 1998

The birds are sleeping, it’s far from morning,
except for the birds who rightfully haunt
the dark, and the low-life, lazy geese
who’ve given up their fly-way rights
to live at ease around the man-made pond
below the ridge.They come around the hour
of the wolf and wake me up. I can’t help but
love their haunting, honking grief.
It sounds like grief tonight.
A white boat in full moon light is rocking
on the lawn. It rocks and rocks
like a giant’s cradle or a mammoth’s bassinet.
It rocks like a cradle for a god or a devil.
The white boat doesn’t want to go home.

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