I built my house frame in ocean’s flipping
With no thought of things coming after.
I hang over crush from groaning rafters
And I can feel my fingers’ slipping.
Waves reach and drown my laughter.
I can feel my fingers slipping.
Wind roars and screams disaster
Because I feel my fingers slipping—
Splinters dig, burrow into fragile crafters.
My hands are slipping
Flesh and tearing heart see light through clouds has shafted
But it matters not to my fingers’ slipping,
I wonder what will come after—
Broken hands and wounded place find only air
Wind holds no grace, no savior, no prayer
I imagine purgatory everywhere
But instead of water’s choking lair,
I find I’ve fall’n into flowers’ care.
From their sweet, soft, slipping fere,
I rise from earth(l)y stillness, ‘ware
Of a finality—a warmth—that promises repair.