Without a Net –

When fiction stalls what are we to do?

Are we lost,

unkempt in a bruised prayer left cooling in our Palms? Who

is this mountain to our molehill? Can

we subsume Our piety

in a dare? What

reeling phenomenon curtails our steady Gait? Who

can blister through hot metal

to arrive baleful and filled with Sorrow?

We are the gnomes of an intimate knowing

who work our Magic

incognito hauling water to the fire consuming flames

and white-hot heat We here

are the lucky Ones who God would save

for some other Purpose of our knowing laced with Skill

and doubt We attain the freedom

of Our fears we wet our lips our coursing blood enough

for the Task, this day a solemn

undertaking

of Spirit and Substance all told in a minute’s time

We here

the ghosts of our growing ache --