I’ll dive. My feet are springs
to push me off. My arms are wings
careening me through the air. My eyes
are glares to light the path. If I

fall flat on my face I’ll just roll
to the next place. But I won’t sit still
as a pigeon on the windowsill looking
in the house of life. I’m the howling

wind at night. I’m the gale, the forest
fire. I’ll burn a trail before I retire. I won’t look
back with “ifs” Life is short but tall
on orders. I can jump all their borders. I’m

the bomb! My cocktail is a Molotov,
served straight up, with a twist of
rhyme. And I’ll swing from every line, high
as a string on a kite, crimson and white.

It is rather unremarkable,
Or at least as so as such a pane may be,
Depicting a trinity not mentioned in Scripture,
Though their handiwork would likely merit approval
From any member of the trio cited therein,
As they went forth humbly,
In humble carriages in service
Of an ostensibly prosaic task
But certainly on the side of the angels,
As must have been noted
In each of their respective services
(Closed-casket affairs, one presumes
Given the state of the remains
After they were extracted
From the earthen dam site where they were discarded)
And their particular Caiaphas
Dispensed with sending their cases onward
For further consideration
(He too a man of the cloth, but also a mill operator,
Producing two-by-fours worthy of use on Calvary)
And after he had passed sentence,
Leaving matters to take course,
One assumes he went home, washed up
And made his usual rote recitations
Asking for Him to watch over his and his ownself.

~
I cast my net
                  into the tributary

and release into you, a seasonal swim,

I give to you a mother's color,
        as you recite
        infant hymns,

                    you're a bleeder
on the days sunfire meters out its origin,
                    you're my river

free and clear from the grip

      of anchorage,

                         my river,

drifted on to wherever
                       moon wishes glister
~