Mitch L’Herault
     lives in Verona. Having written songs, poems, songpoems and poemsongs for many years, he still finds poetry the most mysterious of the arts.

No Wake

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

earring eyelets
sunk and sinking
treasure trunks
too deep to heave

shoreman shook
the tattered netting
spun upon
arachne's weave.

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Winterkill

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.