I'm building a canoe of bones,
it is mostly airtight with my dead bag skin
stretching paper thin about it.
I've found a way to proceed with
my split-blister oar arms, to push and pull me
like breath in the breeze;
battling the current is a simple losing thing.
I've wrapped nap sacks full of poetry, and
like a good railroad bum, Emily Bronte has taken herself along;
Heathcliff, don't miss me, Heathcliff,
I'm tucking my tongue in and it can't tell you
you're dead and I'm on the river again
feeding teeth to the fish.
There is a vagabond in my blood,
peddling my liver, the color of dried roses,
to the bottle on my ribcage bench.
Come and buy yourself a picture, come and see
a body built into something new, come
and see how hair floats like lilies. A human boat
is a beautiful thing;
There's a peace to drift such
bathing in Ophelia's stream.