hubbub of a city park, whisper of my mind
walking along a paved path, others talking
aloud, a boat — white strings, triangle
of flimsy cloth, silvery hoops & nails joining
three pieces of wood into a proposition
set loose on a pond, motion proof of a breeze
I stop to feel, the sail filling one way
the boat going another, what suggests
a boat will return? freed, it yields
to wind & water’s will, a wallowing hull
a luffing sail, how can a boat not
capsize? my watching can’t but jinx
the ride — best to let the question pass
it’s not my boat, every boat I fancy lost
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