As I was
going to St. Ives,
I met a man
with only one wife,
as far as I
know,
each wife
had two Corgies,
as far as I
know.
The man had
silver in his well-trimmed beard,
but he
flipped his shell over his head,
walked it to
the river,
and turned
it back into the water.
He rowed
away, gently, downstream.
Then as I
was returning from St. Ives,
he was
pulling on his oars,
pulling
upstream with his arms and shoulders,
his back and
legs,
his mind -
as he
approached a blinding patch of early morning reflected sunlight,
halfway
across the smooth surface of the river,
I raised my
hand;
then with the
faint splash of one oar,
he vanished
into a blaze of glory,
never to be
seen by mere mortal men again.
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