AN OLD WOODEN ROWBOAT

We may not speak in poetry

But we feel in poetry

Especially when we make guest appearances
in dreams
featuring every age we’ve ever been.
when we yearned for the love that we lost
Or when we reach out
For a fistful of pillow
Or skim along a lake
In an old wooden rowboat
That forgot its wings
Dressed in nothing more
Than, the formality of cobwebs
and an ancient morning jacket made of dew

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