By Wim Owe
Subsisting off a constant exhaustion,
Looking for the shore, yet fluent in its
Waning away, you find yourself again
Pressed on as the sun rises. Once more
Sore from the force of the oars, what feeds
your wants and boundaries become elastic
In the burning light of a flotsam life,
Sucking away at your silent voices
In the stifling storm. Your own heart beats
For the crowd, pulling away at the sea
Hypnotically stretching around each stroke
As the sweating backs ahead of you shout
For another, until the light settles
Its needles into the foam, your eyes close.
Wim Owe is a dual citizen from Seattle living in Victoria, BC. You may have met him in a moss-filled basement suite in Vancouver, a dust storm in northern Alberta, or perched atop a spinning curling rock in sweaty, sweaty Gatineau. He’s had poems in Pages Penned in Pandemic, Peaches and Bats, and Slightly West. For private opinions made inadvisably public, see him on Twitter.