Perhaps less than ideal
now on a Fort Collins hill
encircled by Stonehenge of closed-cell foam,
in middle age of less than fluid
there sadly sits in worship Druid
bon voyaging an imaginary eighth sea roam.
And when he comes down from that hill
to plot Platte voyage of his thrill
he’ll know there’s just one way to make of it a go.
A System of the Wilderness
cockpits child wildling with its bless,
into infinity and beyond with Pamlico.