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
Charon’s
empty
boat,
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
walking
free
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
wounds
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.
