The sea itself
twisted in a curtain,
waiting
The sea itself
twisted in a curtain,
waiting
Well I’ll be damned
if I’m not now lodged
in the flattest of all waters
to await the gull
who’ll dash my shell:
I’m the least of nature’s daughters!
O ye gods,
that my rain-tossed pride
should give flataway
and leave me plank-scattered
and scared at this,
the bar
You know is not there?
Yank that vine
and get at the root.
And when you’re done,
dig deeper still.
For roots have their own
invisible roots.
You don’t want to hit a tree,
he said
(and I agreed).
And when you go over the falls,
don’t do it the usual way:
get down and hang on,
and if you go under,
make like a ball,
and please,
if you pop up,
don’t float all the way to the Columbia.
Swim to shore and we’ll all have
a better day.