Morning Myth
the boatsman
the boatsman
we name him 
Shaina
and sleep 
on his picture
he’s winging 
his oars
two bodies 
are dragged
on a rope
down the river
their green faces 
smile at us 
crouched
in the freshets
to wake us
he leans in
and touches 
his hair 
to our mouths
and we’re 
already singing 
the boatsman
the boatsman
and calling him 
Shaina
we pay him 
the picture
from under 
our heads
and lay it 
before him
and give him
our hands
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