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Rated: E · Poetry · Transportation · #2253171
That feeling.

And there it is again,

that lurching feeling;
No riverbed to push off from;
Out of my depth
again.
How ironic.
I swerve the pole steadily to the right,
keeping my face on;
They chat and smile away, just the same:
White birds gliding slowly through a green world,
while overhanging leaves kiss their mirror twins on the edges.
My hold is firm again,
hands climbing securely
along a steady, even path;
Angle changing, but one hand
above the other, never doubting
where to go.
Firm grip again, I can lean my weight in
if I need to.
We drift along;
The green mirror not such a steady, even path,
But it'll do—
—On a good day.










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