Water is a mirror and visions
become reflective. I hesitate
on the edge while you sing.

My blanched knuckles clutch
the flanks of the canoe. When you
give the signal, I enter the round.

Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
(Row, row, row your boat)
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Rounds are not harmonious;
one person sings while the other
trails forever two lines behind.
I vomit twenty years of sour notes
into the water. Going ‘round
and ‘round on rounds, not the sea,
has made me ill; my purge
is an inkblot of the Titanic.

The White Star Line maiden did not
succumb to an iceberg; she rested
when her buoyant musicians,
knowing fate had doomed the tune,
found the courage to cease playing.