To be adrift feels like a gift tonight. No shores to try, no oars to ply, no wake— just moon and lake and being here. Why strive? Why steer toward some fixed distance? Thank you, existence.
The Literary Magazine of the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics, and Writers
To be adrift feels like a gift tonight. No shores to try, no oars to ply, no wake— just moon and lake and being here. Why strive? Why steer toward some fixed distance? Thank you, existence.