Drowning (I)
If sand
could be swallowed
would
that empty place within
curve
back into a solid
and home,
that recedes at dusk,
be
finally re-found?
If the
night, that hollow we step between
to hide all
the damage
we have
done, could be devoured
and made to
turn again into light
would we
feel the sun run
free in
the tired rivers of our veins?
And if my
hand could hold the right pen,
if the
ink ran into all the proper places
and the
lines between remained balanced and sober,
would I
finally find all the images and sounds
might
fall still
the way a
leaf tumbles down to the floor
and
creates a sea of silence
for the
many lives of the creatures that burrow
and
scurry beneath the ocean of tree?
Might I, if
I found my inside
had been
turned out and drowning then
in the
sight of what should be hidden,
be set
free?
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