—AND INCH BY INCH WE GET CLOSER

 

 

Ever

 

It’s Tuesday or Easter,

last year or never,

and I’m in the aisle,

between the rows of pews,

lost as ever,

searching for a name /

meaning, something I can

claim or understand,

when a hand reaches out,

squid-like, slimy and moist-hot,

pulling me down, through the

fog with all its false promises,

into a sea no one has

ever seen or discovered,

and that’s where I stay,

below the murky surface,

looking up at the bellies of things

floating by like the faint memories

of a person who might have been,

for all we know, if ever.