Approaching.
When the saints go silent, and the church doors are shut,
and the hum soaks up your hearing and the minutes
you meant for keeping spill a mess at your feet,
as the engine grinds another skull––
When something floats a hand from the hollows
of the day’s drift, may you reach for it.
Abound.
Overflow, child.
Find the long
looming brim
of this vessel
and sail beyond
now
the high river
of your full.
Instead of a story.
I guess the weight of it all is what keeps us longing for some hour of grace, she said. The subject was an idea that one of us was floating, of a truth big enough to shatter the ends of us whole again. We were tired, but she said we would lose the fight if we knew what was before us. Then a strong wind blew, and we were lost again, only now we knew this better than we had before.
Now we’re getting somewhere, she rasped, and we looked up again, hoping she would elaborate, but she was doubled over, laughing through her tears.
