Conor Van Riper
To know the thrill of loneliness,
upon an evergreen canoe.
Bedeviled by your aquatic body,
moored on the sea floor
at low tide.
Russ Island and I share a tense glance
beneath towering,
holy giants.
Yet, still there,
the maiden’s hair,
full of flowers
fair and wild, grants
tart wineberries to my tongue
whenever my thoughts should wander;
and the tides wash me away again.
