the ground is wet, the dirt is dry under the rowboat
of painted maple, its four layers of white enamel flaking
year by year onto cinderblock props, which is a lie
of course but one of course once true that may again be so,
tho i won't hazard the March rain tonight to overturn
the dry-docked, land-locked umbrella that draws the hide
of doe-eyed hare and suffers not for being there