Reeds in the marsh
are a bleached yellow.
It’s early morning when I return.
Cold air moves across warm water
where gray paint rises like clouds
and words adhere to the surface of the wind.
It becomes easy to curse the distance
and hurt one another.
After a while
talking this way becomes matter-of-fact,
an acceptance of abuse.
I reject these arguments
and pull water hyacinth from my oars.
In rebuttal
a gray boat rows across the marsh.              

Here are the syllables of water.
A vague disc in the sky
and dries up low-lying clouds.
A boat slows to a silence
bringing me to you.

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