|Jan/Feb 2008 Poetry|
Waist deep, and I don't know if it's
falling or rising, whether to hold
my breath or cry, whether the next
step is rock or abyss, or if I'm even
in time to care. In my head I have
pictures of cotton-sheer
birds fluttering on summer breezes,
the sound of a marimba tinkling
softly in the distance. Nearby,
you sit on a rock and hum
songs from our courtship.
There was a wolf, his name
was mine, who
once came here before
I sold him for his pelt, using the money
for refrigerator poetry
magnets bearing every word
you ever spoke to me, so I
might arrange them as I chose.
Inspiration is everything. If you sing
sweetly, I will compose them to flatter
you, though I'm not sure it will be
enough to repel the tide.