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.

---

return to poems