Are you loose and vague as a sea grown still
after rain? Or cool as salt water when the season’s
fall, when the sun is low and the air is chill?
Can you move? Do you say,
I try, but my legs won’t kick? I had my looks,
but they’ve gone away?
Can you swim? Are you closer, now, to a fish,
your mind all dumb and your head just float?
Or to raft, in the water’s clasp, in the random swish
and turn? How odd,
in the wide expanse where the water yawns
at the shore. What god
swam off with your ghost? Did he stuff it in a bottle
and give it to the winds and the sea
so its ink’s gone smeared and the message is a muddle
of blue? Will it roll
in the surf or dry on the sands of the beach?
Are you vessel? Or soul?
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