to the mystics

rufous-tinged souls

souls in flight © bd


I envy those few called to be mys­tics,
whether snatched like clothes off a line
or found like patient coins on a sidewalk

I lis­ten to their dead call me from books,
and search among the dull-eyed liv­ing
for that rare one alive in this world

I dive for their wis­dom in the salt sea,
palms open for the prizes down below
in Neptune’s muf­fled world

as I sink from boat to bot­tom
light speaks softly of its drown­ing
to hosts of silent things

above me, I peo­ple the watery sky
with clouds of rufous-tinged souls
home­ward bound in sound­less flight

time will scrub them clean of mem­o­ries,
and suck them in, like a sponge
drinks the wet world around it

far from the shores of the real world,
they rest their wings in ham­mocks,
hop­ing we soon will follow



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