that familiar tug and flourishing of sight
through a dead man’s eyes, yes, I see
revitalized, revived is life, like an alchemy of what rift or
cliffside mind I must preen totally
free of this, foul, dirt of the nails, oily hair—
the desecrated body is yet with us
to act, perform, although a sky may darken, although
a tide might sweep away a lifetime’s worth
of trials back into the sea, reclaimed
again by she. I must rise sickly if to be pure.
I must abandon the ropes and climb with
trembling arms and stiffened fingers
into nooks. I must do all this if to be good.
No more seek refuge, if it is always that I do.
Invest me with a liberty of the spirit
from this vessel that begs and bides.
Invest in me a soul that will not die, for wild days
await this wretched, crippled hide like wine.