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Oarlocks scritch and jump, fulcrums
To the murderous strain of pulling --
The ambassadors of torque flung out dripping
Tiny afterthoughts of water over water.
We lose ourselves in rowing
Our small rented dinghy over the plunked-down gloom of the lake.
We got a real vacation going here, coming here
In a brochure's hurry
And tender: just my idea of fun.
The scenario is metaphorical of course, just another scrim-
Setting hanging in the empty theatre,
Staging area for dopey irascibles like me.
I have no desire to clutter the already
Unavailable world with more world, particularly that
Of the disjoint imitant sort.
In the dire prophesies of desire (and its signs), enough
Exists, enough to can and sell -- one more
Jerry-rigged commodity, a package, a tour.
The locals like to claim one cannot (beginning here) get there --
Something I (the dope) think is hummingly right:
In pieces, the world, oh, the world's in pieces -- fulcrum, dinghy, book.
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