I LEAVE A LOT OF
THINGS UNANSWERED
Your rowboat is a foil in the middle of my
slipstream heart; it runs the limits of the river,
rolling bank to bank. Like a Mark Twain
impersonator myself, I run all the gamuts of
being a fool. Here is my shoulder to cry on.
-
We are sitting too long in the sun, young John.
The pleasure is hurting my head.
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