The line to my heart tugs

when the winds come up

with earth-smells.

I wonder what’s in heaven…

biting.

I wonder will patience

land me the big one.

The lake is liquid loon cry;

the shield buckles with heat.

Saint Gabriel the chainsaw

wings in from afar with news:

“Be not afraid!”

It’s hard to believe him.

Weighed to the gunwales with sunshine

the canoe waits with me

to be captained.

Our drift goes eastward.

There hasn’t been a motor

on this body for days, thanks be to God

of the living and of the machine,

but of the living first.

If earth is down there somewhere

beneath these inky waters

I want it to know

my salvation feels a lot like mud.