Flat on my back, I ride the gentle sway
of a rented boat chasing feathery
clouds, floating as easily as if well oiled.
My dreams should come along. If oiled
half as well, their logic might sway
my follies, mince my fears feathery.
Loons crease my thinking, feathery
flights into solitude, drifting oiled
trails into the dark within their sway.
Feathery fugues, oiled ways, sway.