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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

The Boat

The bow always sticks, but I manage to wrench
it free from the earth’s cold dead hands. I really
shouldn’t beach it but I’m not sure what else to do.
When I rise it’s yet dark and flanking lanterns
provide anemic light to see by. The hull is usually
translucent, and I see parts of what lies beneath.
Some days it’s opaque and it’s as dark as a
confessional booth in a power outage. But
some days it’s translucent and I see clear through
to an upside down planetarium of thoughts which
change orbits.

Patients Unaware

The River