Poem 9

washed up,
my skin is the
bristling foam and
bright sand of the beach;
a prolonged contact
with the Holy
lapping,
lapping,
lapping.

washed up
from tumult, the inner sea;
the fight to keep it
down, unsuccessful
for too long
i am ready to rise;
to walk with my
measly legs, i get up
to turn around, and
face the flooding surge
of the storm with what
balance and
grace God gives.

we will see what
follows after, a baptism
and a drowning.