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.