The Lost One
Floating on the great night sea, your little boat
secure as a comforter. Something comes your
way – a swell? a seasurge? something rising
from the deep, shaping itself out of all that
amorphousness. Now it has a hand reaching
out to you – you lean its way more and more
until the gunwale almost touches the water,
but you can’t quite reach it. You see the hand
start to lose confidence, “Hold on,” you say, “I’ll
wake up, take notes, write you down. We’ll be
friends. I’ll listen,” but the hand knows its only
talk and slides back down into the general drift.
When you come to shore in the morning your
only catch is knowing something was lost.
by Nils Peterson
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