The Rowers

The Rowers

The trapeze artist has to
catch his mate

for once in midair it’s
too late to be

elsewhere

A mortal born must go on
until there’s no more

going on

then continues by his
Fashioner in His fashion

to where his Fashioner has
fashioned

Those explorers who went to the
ends of the earth and

perished in their tents

their own bodies their last frail
physical refuge

as the sleet continued to fall
the final resounding chord on the

planet’s piano played

Alone in our beds
the brush against the

cheek of that nearness
having been born into

physical being it’s
too late to be elsewhere

Having nothing at all to do with the
body is the saint’s way

of astounding conviction
and God’s direct Light

falling upon them
head to toe

inside and out

Looking over the edge of things
can we see any other way out?

But row the big boat
catch wrists in

midair
be peaceful in our

icy tents

bodiless Allah
our sole refuge?

6/4/12 (from Down at the Deep End)

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