Walking on Water
Postby jbrianlong » Wed Sep 29, 2004 11:27 am
I spend the change of my days
in the slick car bays, down hard
in the rust of the seeps.
But the gaskets I slap
neath the hood of the Dodge
drip drips to the lip of the pan,
and the pipe-sleeves I pin
to the cracks in the chassis
slip slack against the rack
where it’s split.
Nothing holds. All I touch
either weeps or it bleeds;
stops pop, gush sludge
at the brush of a wrist.
But then she plops in my lap,
damps a kiss at my neck, leaks
all this work with my hands
makes her wet; O,
she is sail, she is lee,
she is naiad and anemone;
in the cup of her hand
and the cleft of her breath
drift the low dream-sounds
of the sea. Let the o-rings
plip, let the petcocks spit,
let the pipes hiss grey
water snakes down the drain;
she treads the troughs and the scends,
waves a lull over the main;
she is Christ to my faith in me.
viewtopic.php?f=2&t=492