"gunnel" poems
The fisherman’s swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel of flowers growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George’s bank when winds were blowing.
And I judge from that elysian freight
That all they ask is rougher weather,
And dory and master will sail by fate
To seek the Happy Isles together.
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What if that is true love. Being able to inherently identify with an object so closely that you begin to feel for it, or more accurately, through it. The way I often sense a single fault in a two thousand meeter sprint as if I were the hull whose gunnel flexed underneath each and every stroke. The way we trust the smooth pavement as it communicates with us seamlessly through 56 centimeter tires. I assume that it varies directly to the feeling of loving another person. But I figure it is a much more arduous task, as I cannot simply deconstruct the human anatomy like the bolts that secure my oarlock and I cannot adjust someones heart like the seat stay of my single speed in order to cope with my own discomfort.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC