Apr/May 2002 Poetry


by Glenn W. Cooper



Little boats appearing
and disappearing
on a curved horizon.
I close my eyes
and think of those
brave explorers and
just how terribly
they must have been,
never knowing if
they were going to sail
clean off the edge
of the earth
or not.
I'd never considered
this before.

       Not until
this morning when I woke
with a start, reached
for the curve
of her shoulder,
and found instead
my hand moving
through cold,
empty space.


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