20 June 2020

By Philip Kuepper

One can never be certain
of the depths beneath a boat.
What waits hungering there?
The single rower must master
balance; so, too, sailor,
or hope the water spirits are
understanding, and not hostile.

Waters anoint.
Waters slake thirst.
But waters also drown,
returning humans to fish forms
from which we sprang.

Are we an unhappy race
because we do not face
the source of our origin?
We live, instead, by the poetic
version we’ve made up
to suit our fancies.
Outfitting fancies becomes expensive,
clothed in lies as they are,
lies complimentary to ourselves.

It is more fitting to be clothed
in naked truth.  For when we fall
overboard,
it is easier for us to swim
unencumbered.

(7 May 2020)