White boat, white boat, paper shore,
We rode, we rode the copper sea;
Below the walleye, above the baggaged clouds,
Thick salt air.
Step down, step down grownup to a child,
Slip through a keyhole in a polished door;
Hold a cork doll, hands without a wrinkle.
Barefoot, barefoot beach grass slaps your foot-soles,
Stumble down a dune to a wave,
Row in an anchored sea;
Batches of fish on a hook, fried on a wood stove,
Greasy smack of a tail on a cheek.
Rasps the fairy tale story from an aging aunt;
Sleep in a soft bed, innocent dreams.
Outside a dawn, wake up wearing an old face,
Out of breath,
O what has come over me;
And the breakwater’s ribs breaking to a knowledge,
Vanishing shore, vanishing life.
And a house made of sticks and a weeping sun.
This is what it is to be complete.
Copyright © 09/02/18 lance sheridan®