boat of myself


In a boat down a fast running creek,

it feels like trees on the bank

are rushing by. What seems

to be changing around us

is rather the speed of our craft leaving this world.

The mystery does not get clearer by repeating the question

nor is it bought with going to amazing places.


Until you’ve kept your eyes

and your wanting still for fifty ears,

you don’t begin to cross over from confusion.

A secret turning in us

makes the universe turn.

Head unaware of feet,

and feet head. Neither cares.


They keep turning.

Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,

no light and no land anywhere,

cloudcover thick. I try to stay

just above the surface, yet I’m already under

and living within the ocean.

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