Voyage
The dark hand rises and the pale hand falls
I am thirsty. I drift in a still canyon dream
of blue lines tattooed on wet flesh
pulling gray wood through waters remembered
bright surfaces
reflecting an island as small as
my eye
On one foot spinning my back becomes
an arch spilling me out
at a dry river mouth
I lick an indigo needle portrait
and salty whisper
turning time and old circles
into a prayer for love
The sun strikes sharp bridges moments from visions
I stop in its shadows answer questions
with questions
but never go under the darkness created
by spirits who fly from long ago ridges
where one life pours into another
Copyright 1993 Beridha
Beridha.
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