Sophism

The rowboat is a haven for mammals.
The boat you wanted me to get rid of.

It hibernates upside-down like a bat.
Oars folded close, crossed for warmth.

It’s been lying dead since it cracked
in the reedy channel. I remember the way
it submerged like a mauled heart; perch
and bass instantly recessed there.

Algae begun to thrive.

I hauled it out with Jimmy’s wench,
ended up in a backyard burial spot.

I used to wander fields to abandon houses
and broken tombstones. I once walked there
through apple trees and badger dens.
The trails were laid down by deer, horses,
and Japanese dirt bikes.

Detach apples from the trees and put them in
the wooden box, the one with your head in it.

The one we used to make apple butter in;
glorious, award winning apple butter.

I left your eyes in a state of shock.



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This is a revised (hopefully final) version of an old poem.