Rafters in the Earth


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. 

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