What There
Wind wrack.
Low hum of sea.
Voices below long dead.
Bottom sand furrowing
among sunken ship
tatter,
Two worlds
of how many.
A lifting.
A descending.
You ask:
what is depth
but perspective
through a prism
so brief
this life.
Highwire
Far above in the infinite
of space and dream
the acrobat swings
high swings low,
flies through air
that calls,
that praises.
Bodiless.
Figure imagined,
almost transparent.
The people stare upward
planted dimly in earth
where not to soar
is to die
day by day
living on in memory,
forgetting.
For She Who Knows
Lay me in the sheath of days,
nights that beckon like flame.
The seas rise about us.
The pods of our secret selves
begin to burst.
It is sweet to lie together
making of pieces the
bricolage of wholes.
You say we are the scars of
the historical tablets.
But you. You are my calendar
full of pages turned
and not.
How you lift from sleep
and become the poetry
of this world.
How you lift the dead
from the fetid pool
and swoon them
back to life.
0 rivet me hard into earth.
0ur flesh that talks and
dies over and
over.
dougbolling@att.net
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