To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.
How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.
I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.
What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.