More water when there is nothing
but water, the plunging sky’s generosity a mockery. Water seeping into upturned mouths exhaling vermilion promises. There is no rainfall like that bestowed upon the open sea. Open faced we rise to the rainfall falling, flooding across the pores and grooves of our gopher wood skin. Are shadows colorblind or merely appear so? What are these swelling phantoms elongating across the water day and night, night after day? It is all gray: gray ocean and gray sky, gray minds staring downward. Our anchor is become a millstone. They say, Are we kneaded from cloud or clay? Must we choose a piece, a part, or is glory birthed in the whole? They say, Are cisterns filled with a taste of the sea or does all water partake of a single sisterhood? They say, So long traveled and for what? Why not fashion phylacteries from the skins of these orphaned animals, for so are we? I say, Beware the olive branch plucked from Babylon’s advancing shore where color fades. Rainbows were not made for pupils such as ours, such as us, ineffectual prisms. I ask, Was the ark fashioned for dry ground? Step into the rain revealing the Arc with those ascending Jacob’s ladder two by two. |