Building a Dive

On an edge, poetry is like

a knife spreading the skin

of my wrist. A jittery edge,

two hands waving yellow

smoke from a trench.

 

A pile of raked leaves,

poetry is the bustle of

sweat that produced

that silence, those many

sullen glances.

 

Poetry is the diver,

according to Bolaño,

cutting the water, slipping

in and sinking to the bottom

of God.

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