Half-Life
Miracles,
like broken eggs,
unhatched, unmanifested.
My voyeur-ego a spectacle
to itself: yolk garish gold,
an alchemist’s dread—
the future unfavored. Alone,
this hunger, slow as a bear
catching salmon, so studious,
the way the paw dips in, so gracious.
Desire a sacrificial impediment.
The winter tree promises
rose-tinted fruit. Soon,
even the ghosts will have eaten.
Drowning
The sensation of drowning
while on dry land,
of dominoes clacking
forward on their dappled path,
of sleepwalking round and
round in fragrant darkness,
of sated bees seeking the hive’s
golden hospitality,
of Quan Yin’s soapstone body
offering a touch of peace,
of ancient names, beguiling,
drawing in, calling truce,
of spirits cracking bells of disbelief
that I might believe again.
There is no compass, no right way
to fall, no release by weightlessness
(though some will tell you, as you go
under, that there is).
Grasping reeds, the strong acknowledge
the weak within.
This obligation binds
and lingers.
Like all that flows, it conjures a
desire for permanence.
Only my passion for drowning
draws me upward
into light
from these depths.
* * *