Building a boat.
(after Mary Oliver - i think)
I have arrived.
And there is no land in sight.
All the warnings – caution and reason – don't reach very far
into the depths; that version of life where you know
what you’re doing, has a short chain.
I am tried-on, systematically burned:
flame runs up mouldy curtains and alights upon roof,
catches the near hills, gives birth to a sun.
Silver0gold lances graze the broken steeples
wearing the skirts of endless waves.
Pit bull lunges at shadow jolting coffee, woman, fingers-and-cigarette suspended behind. This is a shabby age.
A transitional age. Things are floating by. So I
just build a boat with the debris within reach.