He crosses the water—
just crossing—
—not on a boat, but on an oar,
simple blade of wood, under
two feet.
Two, to be totally aware,
know the groundlessness
supporting them,
not grasping the oar, but petting it,
splitting wave after wave of lessons,
new lessons and usually old ones
returned again, to bobble the oar in the air,
for the poet-warrior must remain aware.
Oh you there,
you just know he’s got to fall,
into the salty sea, where sharks
and mermaids wait to see,
waiting to see if he
accepts the
unacceptable,
except he doesn’t fall, draws
no conclusions, just stands on two feet,
attached so loosely to the oar,
meant to paddle but used to carry—
the poet-warrior—
The poet-warrior stands not proud,
not tall, not anything at all—
just upright, watching the sky
and the flying fish fly—
thinking nothing—
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