Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 Poetry |

Many Rivers to Cross

Many rivers to cross,           but I can't seem to find my way over. Maybe you wonder why I'm not stronger. Maybe you wonder if I've lost and lost badly. Yet you tell me it's of no matter          (while thinking all the while why I'm not stronger). Maybe you believe me when I say I'm going insane,                      day by day and too easily picture me ending up conversing with a tree--- no longer able to distinguish my place setting from my food--- barely audible are my mutterings of water torture in another world. They strapped me down and just a drop hit my forehead, dead center every fifteen seconds, for seven years, or ten or was it twelve, I can't remember. It was the endlessness of it all that killed me, not the water. Wandering, I am lost          as I travel alone, white cliffs of Dover. How I envy and resent and admire the white cliffs of Dover,    kneel

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