7 July 2020
By Philip Kuepper
A turquoise silk sheet lay the sea
a finger of wave drew across.
Shone a sun too bright
to look, directly, at the sheet,
that, to the touch, I sensed hot,
too hot for me on which to lay.
But, then, I am
not a lover. I am
not one to set afire flesh.
That particular bed I stay wide of,
where psyches, impassioned,
melt one into the other.
The boat I set out on
is the boat of contemplation
I read the soundings of the depths.
What swims there, unseen,
has it a complement
flying, unseen, in the heavens?
It is by such questions
I am set afire by.
(22 February 2020)
