Poem 150: Leaving the Raft Half Submerged

from the edge of the lake
half submerged
in the dreaming blue shade,
a beam of wood
etched by the bright light
of the mulatto air draws
and ripples the water
into a hesitant space
that gently acknowledges
all that has gone before
of the ghosts
and wishing wells that I carry
around with me
from the edge of memory,
to the why of now,
where in this instant
these memories
that are too soft to be true,
too hard to be a lie,
now lie so woodenly,
half submerged
in the oath
and sound of water,
muffled so, I
cannot hear the traffic bickering
on the edge of morning,
as the studio washes over
with the light of eggshell blue
and vermillion, that sweeps
the corners of the room
to the bat black and gold
lacquered Chinese trays
trimmed with fire
and resting
on the foraged walls
that are ready to come
Jerichoed down.

The oak door shimmers
and is grained with transparency,
and in the hollow of the lock,
pulsing shadows invite
the light to turn the key,
dreaming all the while
of a thunder rolling on
through the opened door
and away into a complete
and prescient silence.
and the river flows
more quickly from this point
the flood gates,
and stones parade
to watch the meandering current,
all this perceived from a distance,
where under
an incomprehensible sun,
finite lines of parallel sight
qualify infinite limit down
and down into a
blazing vase of sunflowers,
heavy with light,
but lightly yoked to the dark
and deeply polished Vermeer
of an old black oak bureau,
Elizabethan to the core
by a staging
of folded grey napkins ,
soft linen creatures in the round of
a’cappella voices
echoing in shadow lined cups
that arrange themselves
in repose like saints
in a sun blasted chapel
of sandstone and lime.
and for once
that which is doing the holding
is more fragile
than that which is being held.

the air that we breathe
is charged with the excitement of wings,
as diving into each other
we leave the raft,
we breathe into each other
-spiros vitale-
we keep each other alive,
mouth to mouth ,
mind to mind
like swimmers rising
to the surface
of a deep untold story
sharing the air
that we breathe into life.
and from below the sun
is seen as both whole
and fragmented
and as we break the surface
the shock of new air
on our shoulders
leaves no mark to say
this was or was not.

a cherry blossom
flickers by the window,
an opalescent spider
dances across the Italian tile,
-incognito-
we stand up
to walk or run,
we open our mouths
to eat or talk
we open our eyes
to see or not see,
we lay down
to sleep or die
half submerged in dreams
of life and death.