Crossing The Water At Night Poem by James McLain

It is to still,
strang bubbles wafting from the bottom up
and pop,
the smell is as if people have farted
I silently flaot across black lake,
narrowly missing a shiney black boat, two white men
in the dark look black.

Under the cover of tree's where bushes aren't, these are
trees heavy of root
bending down from the neck and drink.
Their shadows of moss must cover the dark inky sky.

A light held forth in a hand filters up from what was
latter unknown but now is flowers.

Their thin harry leaves little arms without hands do not
wish us to tarry
They are round of face and flat and full of word's.

Warm world's collide with the cold as we breath in all
the vapor from the bubbles that burst.