The canoe we paddle rubs the coast
Softened vine, tree and rushed swaying
Torpid banks against a lazy streaming delta
Flows slowly, and our canoe lodges in the wedged
Waterlilies. We are now tired of paddling.
Sitting in a static oasis on the water
This day we faced the current,
Across dim meanders, through woods and pastures,
Past bogs, lying thick across the water
An odour of wilted wheats billowing
Singing the winded songs of perfect,
Habitual motion-swish, sway, swosh
Tired of motion, of the rhythms of paddling,
Tired of the thoughtful play of our interwoven strength,
We lie in each other's arms and let the ebb
Of waterlily leaf and petal hold back all flow in the heat
Thickened drowsing air smothered sparks of lust to lovely sediments.
Sing to me softly, chanted songs of suburbia that wash ears of youth.
Sing softly the wandering erotic melodies
Of men and women gone one hundred years, softly,
Brush aside the veil that drapes a visage facing me,
Sit still deep, within you, while time slides away,
As this river slides beyond this lily bed,
To another bank to graze its liquid grace.
We lie in our canoe and gaze a star-ridden sky
And thieving moments fuse and vanished of our mortal, timeless flesh.
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