le bateau ivre

for foucault, for whatever reason

this time i slogged through muddy waters and my trousers clung almost up to my thighs.

disembarkation my reputation is built on.  ambiguating myself between left and right thigh.  like the chafe of pantaloons.

the dawn is still dark.  there are birds.  the water eddies thickly.  of course not cold, never cold but my god.  the water is to whence my boat returns when i find the shore.  but in this lightless hinterland there is

nothing but

the rock

of my own body.

against which

i hurl.

but the boat

is gone

anyway.