Another story about a man
rowing down the black river,
his back bent, shifting, a tree
settling into its earth,
resist-less. I routinely forget,
everyday every-man rising
from a bed that holds his body up
while he's sleeping like water
holds its breath, effortless.
Our dreams begin this way,
in shadow first, then delivered
into light-filled waves, rippling
circles of wish & wondering;
all of it makeshift, untranslatable,
reckless. The story of building
a boat, carving its ribs, sanding
its bones, confusing its hollowed
body with hope is almost
believable.
No comments:
Post a Comment