What Floats

Another story about a man
rowing down the black river,
his back bent, shifting, a tree
settling into its earth,

resist-less. I routinely forget,
everyday every-man rising
from a bed that holds his body up
while he's sleeping like water

holds its breath, effortless.

Our dreams begin this way,
in shadow first, then delivered
into light-filled waves, rippling
circles of wish & wondering;

all of it makeshift, untranslatable,
reckless. The story of building
a boat, carving its ribs, sanding
its bones, confusing its hollowed

body with hope is almost

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