Crisis is sometimes a quiet prayer
the breath riding a wish, the breath,
me under a log in the woods, buried
by my own fertility
If I capsize, bail me out with sponges
absorb me in slow bursts and wring
me out with enough force to stop
sadness from flowing
over nickels in a well. I'm drowning
in life and the luxury of children;
halfway to the bottom I cannot see
the sunlight
and it may be stars are out. Fatigue
fogs my compass so I do not know
up from down or day from night
and this is fine,
but I could use a vest or rope,
some muscle to haul me out
of the depths of this . . . this
wearied water.
