Take your boat out on the lake where the land sinks to flatness, and float and wait. Clement ripples sloth to shore; through verdant ridges slung in cloud
Namaste to you too, soft-voiced nicey-niceys with your facile Jesus glints. When forced benevolent grins part those slender anaemic lips,
Here the horror of life is stark No feint or fake can dodge it. Ply this track between sodden fields Where strays marshal buffalo And the lake backdrops all. Breathe this clotted air,
They were on their way to America, just he and his mother. The others had flown the week before and were waiting for them.
When Rubin had been a child, all had been very different. There had been a feeling of abundance of fulfilment, not necessarily of joy and happiness but the moments had been full, pregnant and entirely satisfactory.