Bound

Morning goes on forever for those we lost in the afternoon.

Mangrove, elephant grass putting the sky pieces with the water pieces.

Why is the stream such a masterpiece of sound?

The moss so vulnerable,

Unable to move from round, wet stone, but to grow.

The orange tide, the swaying kelp, phosphorescent bacteria in breaking waves

And on the fish processing ship, the klieg lights are like rain

And it is raining on the water with the sound of hard rain

And the stomach churn of the deck hurling,

Hoisting us from our feet like angels on a thin wire of light

Through the navel and back down through the deck,

Through the stage where we share entries and introductions to one another.

The bleating of the lamb and scream of rope through a pulley getting hot,

Hoisting the light shining down on us, clammy as the dead for well wishes.

Pulling hard at the living as if the audience could be made to believe

Again how we were once born, young again,

Shaggy, thrifty with our bitter ends to make better

The translucence of light in water on us,

In us, like night in a dream and the pillow is the door

Is the window,

Is the egg the fish swallowed on its way somewhere else,

Bound never to be believed.

WTC 3/13/24 by Rolf Stavig

Rolf's Poems and Pictures