our oars arranged
with paddles dripping
each pull and tug
and lift and leave
beyond the tip
split rotting rowing
worms and things
damp make believe
sunk and sinking
too deep to heave
the tattered netting
All the mayflies drop and dry now.
Lighter than the water they become
Feathery petrified skeletons, tasteless
Like time and the neglect of a graveyard.
Where no one in Neptune's lost army
Will hurry to eat their blurry souls.