21 June 2021

By Philip Kuepper

I row the shell of my body
along the stream of time.
I have been doing so
since my mother gave birth.
It is a dry stream, time,
my oars equipped with blades
to navigate air and dust,
my stream mine alone
only I can know to row,
and only know as I go.
The map I use is the map I make
onsite. No radar marks shoals,
nor the sudden whirlpools
of minutes that make rough
passage through the hours.
I have learned to lift my oars
out of the stream, and glide
through the harrowing
seconds, like sharks gnashing rabidly
at my thin-skinned ribbing.
And the falls ahead?
Well, I go over them, regardless,
death, the falls in which all time
ends.

(17 June 2021)