I swam the primordial deep

you crossed the creek
and wrote a song about it,

and as I drowned there in the sky,
the water-worn firmament,
stars caught in the corpulent seaweed,
and saw then in the distance
I was more afloat for a moment or so

you climbed a tree
and called it a mountain

as someone asked I move Karakoram
by shear will of faith,
while I believed still in the crushing might
of the old black gravel until I saw Sisyphus
and laughing,
and I was happy for a moment or so

you took a sip of wine
and called it Christ

but, oh, good God, for too long
I’ve been drunk on that blood
chugging down your guilt and mine
until by the broken spear of the god of grief
he who
would heal
and I withstood my pain for a moment,

that all in all is this:
that I guess your creek could’ve been your abyss
that your tree, perhaps, your Everest,
or that the drink you drink could bring you bliss,
but from here I’m moved to think, you think
your world’s a little rougher than it is.

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