Poetry
The old man/
plies his trade, his wages earned: a clean boat./
Is labor prayer?
As I walked to Lake Divine, I remembered I’d forgotten/
To fill my pockets with rocks. I’m the type who forgets
Call it an exercise in restraint/
The angle of ascent is sharp/
Like the sloped ceiling
The girl in black dress and tights stands behind the fawn,/
hands clasped, their white blur forming almost/
a heart.
one of the benefits of the disease –/
you learn new words. You/
also learn new meanings for/
old words.
