Wood paddles whip the water in
a frenzy of orchestrated chaos,
the drum repeats the one-pointed beat
-the concentration of the devotee-
each arm a reflection of next, each lung
propelling the same breath, breathing
the mystical word that parts the sea,
each heart calling for the poet’s body
to be raised from the undertow
which is the only absolute we truly share.
The world waits by the shore, the ordered
rows of buildings, the four lane highways,
the paper pushers, the pale skins.
But they don’t exist here.
Here is the narrow floating temple,
the unrestrained prayer of the athlete
who cannot taste sea-salt from sweat
whose skin reflects the alizarin chant of noon.
The sunrays are in blossom, the drum repeats
the arrow pointed beat, the water churns again
in anger, and there, under the chaos of the blades,
a white-robed figure looks up from the deep.
DQ 11/10/08
