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.