The Painted Boat

There is the water and the not water.
I cannot trust my senses to know the
difference. My eyes show a boat
floating in the pond outside my cell.
Chipped a dull green, the kind a forgotten
world uses to drift on ponds and fish.
Every day is blue here but rapt standing
dreaming glowing green has entranced
me with possibility.

Mast or sails anything seems possible when
before me lie questions - why does anyone
need answers? The hull cuts through the murk
of this pond inside my prison. Inmates cut
grasses which choke everything alive.
Delicious the boat glides along with motor
asleep - and I think just one pull.