The oar reflects and 

Casts a shadow on the thick red

Swelling lake, 

Thick with time gone and

Nights past. 

Thick with my hands 

Loose and deft; stained now 

With a momentary solution

To a mountain of problems.
Mountains are formed when

Two great stones collide 

And push in against each other

Reaching up and up and 

Up until the clouds are daggered 

And snow falls asleep towards the peak.
My hand makes waves and

In it’s rippling wake 
I feel myself die

I feel myself wince

I feel my bed beneath my feet

Rich with sulfur and stone 

Straightening out my back

It’s good for my back because

I’m always aching from the weight

Of two stones slowly colliding

In my thick stupid skull 

Always full of rippling red lakes.