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