We push out, breath from blue,
like the breaking waves, alone with their thoughts,
and catch ourselves among the reeds.
Passing alone through districts of enchanting knowledge,
we cough up our meal of bones, still hungry to drown
inside a conundrum bigger than our shoes.
Our little oceans, best of our times, rimmed ‘round
with shortening days, the noose of our shrinking
humanity; allure, the currency of dreams.
Still, one swims in what one drinks and drinks
what washes down and around all that looks
for more horizon. Let the four-quartered moon
sing what is only heard when deafness prevails.
The tragedy of the good, the irony of evil, foisted
upon hearts ill-suited for the journey in.
So it seems that the only way to bleed to life
is in the unmooring of our punctured ships.
There is more room to bleed when splintered lie
our longings, long held, and drawn and bloodied
souls buoy once more upon
the silent, soothing sea.
Special thanks to dear friend and colleague, Valerie Dodge-Head for her masterful artwork which inspired this piece.