" The Messengers "
They will find you. Geese
fly low over the bay's backwaters,
hieroglyphs of footprints in black mud,
droppings like Van Gogh brush strokes
on a canvas of green.
Deer leap through brown
hoops of twilight, bodies
like sparks burned on the gathering darkness.
Breath hums through the harp
of their ribs when they bend to drink.
Fog rolls in and the moon
becomes the diffused face of a siren.
Songs toll across the Chesapeake
from the open throats of buoys, bells
that ride the rolling furrows of waves.
They beckon you to wade
the dark waters where crabs
dream of sculpting your bones
into temples of loneliness,
shrines of solitude.
You want to cry release me,
let me fly into the night air
as your chest shakes like a cage
filled with wild beasts, and voices and signs
continue to arrive.
You want to lord over them,
govern their unexpected appearances,
jolts like blue eel shocks to the brain;
but you're the vehicle, the involuntary medium
of paper and pen.
© 2004 Jim Doss
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