it’s late
the moon is in eclipse
my wine glass is empty
I rest my head in my hands
beyond mere exhaustion
or the constant sadness
aching beneath my skin
I should know by now
after so many lifetimes
of watching the night:
the water rises at my feet
the storm surge shall pass
I have no fear of drowning
I’ll find a way
to draw myself
writhing
from my darker anger
to harvest the depths
as a fisherman once again
pulls his nets from the sea
(from a work in progress: “Arcana” King of Cups, December 29, 2013)
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