Lost
In June fog, I am an empty boat,
weathered, one oar lost,
at the center of a fathomless lake.
On a warm July morning,
I am a blue canoe far from the sea—
In June fog, I am an empty boat,
weathered, one oar lost,
at the center of a fathomless lake.
On a warm July morning,
I am a blue canoe far from the sea—