Cold are the waters of the lake. Black and glassy,
they lay below the boat.

It, the boat, does not truly move forward,
nor does it lay perfectly still.

Two oars to row the boat,
one lay beneath the black glass.

It, the boat, does not truly float,
nor does it really sink.

Two oars to row the boat,
one lay in my hand.

I row until there is
no North, no East, nor West, nor South, nor North.
No East, no South.

Until it, the boat, has seized to sink,
or seized to float, either of which
it never really did.