I went to the isle of lethargy in a dinghy boat on a rolling sea, and stayed there for an afternoon, on a white sand beach with a friendly loon, who kept his head beneath his wing and urged me not to do a thing: desire, purpose, drive to fling into the rolling sea.
I let them fly then closed my eyes and heard the waters softly rise to drown desire, purpose, drive beneath the rolling sea.
I drowsed away the sun’s last rays and woke in darkness, cold and dazed. The stars flared cold upon black waves of the distant, rolling sea.
I stumbled, tumbled to the shore and cursed the loon and sought the oar of the dinghy boat that I forswore when the sun was high and promised more than a few brief hours, careless poured into the rolling sea.
And now I pull against the surf, pulling hard for all I’m worth. The loon, he circles, cries with mirth. He will not deign to touch the earth while he can soar and pity me, lost on the rolling sea.
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