Ships of God
The ship of God threatens to take me away
to take me
back to where all spirits came
from, the air or the sea, it is the same
when waves or gushes hit my nape,
when they hit the base of my spine,
coil a finger 'round the marrow
and squeeze
- do they expect it to give?
To give what?
a dropped glass
a cutting shard
a staining drop
and a fullstop.
to split my spine
to drink the wine
from broken brass
from reddened grass
it's such a waste
in such a haste
to reach for hand
and grip the sand
and yet...
My breath through the marrow comes,
narrow from a finger, from a hand
and I turn around and find
- well, I find all that I can.
The ship of God awaits still on the shore.
I might join its voyage then - but nothing more
for sure.