Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |



A ship, you say, is in the garden.
A ship. A sheep. A swallow.
Water. Land.      Air.
                         You speak without realizing you have misspoke.

And why not water?

Nights of little sleep, the bed was a berth, the walls
a hull. The lawn an ocean. The hill a swell.

We stand by the back door so you can show me.

             It’s of old, with sails. And the white heather gives
way on either side.