The Rowers

The Rowers

The Rowers

Inclement weather. We’re rowing between two rocks
For a third which is palpable yet unreachable.
We had foreknowledge of this before setting off
From a port with a name too fluttery to pin down.
Before us, the channel sticks out a tongue,
Raw, wildly gangrenous, and vows to steer us
Safely beyond the cape of pulsing knives.
It’s a wasted pledge since our one belief
Is the substance of a doubt, solid, unprisable
As the shell stigmata badging the gunwale,
Signifying the passage of being not time.
So, framed by two rocks, we aim the prow
Towards a third that neither wanes nor grows,
Certain that our reach will exceed our grasp.