How lift and pull,
So easily the string unravels.
The shirt of hair no longer needed,
Even in the cold, blossoming ice.

She had a strange dream,
A tempest of belongings scattered all over the road.
Over ourselves, confusion
In the fight for rudder or steering wheel and
I say, you say, she says “Why” and
Draped around her shoulder is the limiting mean,
The average, the everyday and so much left behind in freeing us, trap wise,
Constant in bailing,
Canoe tip up with ballast in the back.
It’s a black and white film from here.
No certain moral ending.
We are in it for the look of the film and shadows.
Enough said,
Enough drawn on the parchment to represent some difficult self-flagellation.

Worry not the decay of age good heaven trades
For a horse, a means and release.

By Rolf Stavig, 12/23/2024