What is (my) life
but an idle boat
isolated
upon a raging sea of possibility:
sink/swim
sink/swim
sink/swim
sound the waves
flapping against my stern
countenance amplified
by these “oh, this is dead serious!” doubts.
At times, they’re only
mere ripples,
a gentle patter,
tempered by the arrogance found in made-to-measure destinations.
Otherwise, they’re mostly
the roughest of currents,
cresting
crashing
clattering
drowning out
insight—
just can’t
see clear landing….
For this, is always water, water, everywhere
but not a drop
to drink
up
out of
some unimaginable good life.