WATERMARK SACRED
by Cliff Penwell
We are the slowest of the swimming mammals,
trapped in places where souls would not travel
of their own, but for the longing rooted in us.
Flight is still a mystery: by day our thin arms
do nothing for us; only at night do wishes
become owl's wings, lifting heavy bodies
dreaming more of breath than of blood.
For a litle while yet we must console
ourselves with images of stars--
little boxes, mirrors and wires sing to us
of our own majesty, ephemeral and layered
in tissues of glass and steel.
Where did we go? What happened to our
breath of creation, the alchemy of moist read more »
