You row slowly, pulling
with your narrow shoulders,
your punt moving through crud
on Lake St. Clair:
sewage from a cottage, roused mud,
a tall beer.
You do this daily now, in 1938.
Because it is all you have told me,
it is all I can think of you doing,
or like to,
when your insides touch my finger
through this rubber glove.
:: Phil Hall, in Going for Coffee (1981)
No comments:
Post a Comment