I abandon my rowboat – the ocean ends
when my oars no longer wedge between bricks.
No one notices I am half salt and clouds are gathering.
Near the fountain, students rewrite holy books
in the wake of church bells. There is not enough room
on my tattered shirt to undertake such a project.
I find a wheelbarrow in case stars fall from their vines.
I slide my folded hands over the handles.
Perhaps this is the weight I am given.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.