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I found a boat in a glistening wheat field,
It wooden, solid, not a splinter,
Yet when I climbed in did surroundings yield
And show me in clear lake of winter.
(No scurry, now, shall I tell,
You leave if wish by insanity,
But I shall tell it even to microscopic cell,
My reveling stumblings with humanity.)
The heat the same, but with bashing cold,
The wheat around did stutter and shudder.
Yet I did contemplate this fixed destined mold,
And consider it haply for daily old clutter.
Yet row about did I do lone,
And crave an opening in the wheat,
Or see the boat splinter or turn to stone
To sink and breathe and watch the fish even fleet.
But then from a bed of red flowers did call
A girl that so beckoned with reaching voice so shrill,
And I can still imagine that that boat did stall,
And let me breathe in the cold, dirty wet chill.
But did I emerge? Yes, so I did.
I came out of the hot wheat fields for deed,
To soak in the world and the secrets I thought hid
And say, “I thought there was something I’d need.”