Our ropes are the roots of our life. We fish low in the earth, the river beneath runs through our veins, blue and cold in a riverbed. When the sun comes up, the moon moves slowly to the left. I tie the logs and limbs together, holding them in place. The ocean beats them smooth like rock. Here my sense of time is flat. I find in a strip of damp sand footprints and marks of hands, and torn pieces of flesh. Night is a beast. The tide moves, gushing back and forth. Sunlight touches our faces, turning us, turning us, turning us in our morning sleep. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SA-CA-GA-WE-A; THE INDIAN GIRL WHO GUIDED LEWIS AND CLARK by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 43. FAREWELL TO JULIET (5) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A SONG OF SALVATION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE HUSBANDMAN'S SONG, FR. KING RENE'S HONEYMOON by GORDON BOTTOMLEY PIRATE TREASURE by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: APOLLO AND THE FATES by ROBERT BROWNING |