Wet between your toes Softly walk upon the pond Beware of below
Leaves thrust, firm and new. Breathing with callow desire. Petals rot like flesh.
Eight point three pounds. Gallons upon gallons. Displace me now.
The one word to learn. In any tongue is thank you. Rising from your bunk.
In a flat I rest. My neighbor, her blooms are fresh. And the rich look down.
Standing riders shuffled around, equalizing the gap between themselves and everyone else.
None heard that the lines written for Hercule Poirot were delivered with a proper English tone. Nor did they care that the questions from her daughter were born of a place much closer to Kensington and Prospect Park than Kensington and Hyde Park.
A morning in flux. My dreams hang dark and real. Then I am free.
I touched her hull but she barely twitched. “I am tired, hurt, and scared,” she said in a rattled whisper.
She was weighed down by generations of neglect and good intentions. She wanted to it all to be over, to be put to rest. The ice in the Hudson heard her and tried to help, only to be plucked from obliviation by good intentions once again.
Bread baking on a sailboat is more efficient using packaged yeast than maintaining a sourdough starter. But if you are looking for efficiency, you are probably not particularly interested in sailing either.
Warmer is the dawn. Still low and south though you are. Sullen chaste for now.