A sun in a dried lake, in a Sunday
In a mud stow’s lope
in a water well- not a beggar
though, nor not of
a long beat echoing oar on a lock.
Pull a rope for an anchor- supper bell
for a dead fish,
bait in a rusted can; bounce a worm
on a clay spot, on a
sun day. Rain a negligence on a dry
Plate, scent of a drop not a mend
In between, heat in
a wade some here, hand dip like a
No more people to swim in a stretch.
Copyright © 02/18/17 lance sheridan®