Green Canoe

The whirls were twisting in patterns

as they touched beyond the gunnel.

A paddle turns the world beneath

me, leaving stillness, leaving land.

Sweeping seaweed from my blade,

I glide through misty vastness

Leaving bounded space behind,

shedding moorings and the coast.

I was gliding there in a

green canoe. I was gliding along.

I was gliding like a hockey

puck pushed, smooth black water shifting

to blue, with the Sun peaking

just below the needled fir.

Thinking of my stroke beneath,

a feathered open row.

Ain't it a Shame?

Ain't it a shame,
this gonerism,
byeism,
simple see-you-in-Julyism?

Ain't it a shame
for your arms to slump
and your back to arch
like a dew-laden grain-
stalk bending in the dawn?

Ain't it a shame for us to
hold cold hands in a cold
parked car, and to pack off
at that moment like
shiftless old dogs?

(--and suddenly, I'm holding nothing:
one cannot hold onto a
memory's dead moments, I learned)

And so long so long,
but ain't it a shame?