I return to the story about the monk
who put everything he owned into a boat
and rowed it into the middle of the lake
and then sank it. He did not give the stuff away,
not wanting to burden anyone else
with things. I would like to take
a red canoe to the center of a lake
and sink it with these thoughts—
why should anyone else need to worry
the ways I have worried on behalf
of the world? My only fear is that
they would displace so much water
the lake would flood and who knows
how many might be hurt then. No, I think,
better to take them for a walk.
Oh those thoughts, like unruly puppies,
biting at my ankles and running off—
and isn’t it like me to call them back
or run after them, afraid they’ll get lost.