| OCR Text |
Show THE RAFT Walking this inland city under rain there are so few elements that speak to us of home: a tall potted flower on a neighboring porch, red as a Spanish dancer and as liable to spin where she stands; or the trees we have learned to call catalpa, which means "head with wings," their bean pods surging down the deep gutter rapids of our street. No wonder we stand on the hard pocked shore of the lake tonight, lonely for oceans we've lived by. Solitary, but for the scavenging stars and the one low cloud that is our ghost ship. Turn from it, love, and lay with me. On the soft surf of our breath we go, a small raft, a sleeping oarsman, out from a harbor the odor of loss, the odor of a woman, looking back. |
