a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
as you go blue-black, waste deep,
hand bladed off the forehead.
As you cut caliginous light
I could be the fisherman
on the nearby dock watching you lunge
forward into cold water
your open hands like ladders to a heaven
your arms rounding out from their other.
Yesterday you told me
what you feel near water. Osmosis
a proximity to the dead
in the rapping waves or stillness, the lull and catch.
You said there was something about it all
which made sense.
You hope now I see myself in you, sprawling,
a well-rendered line cut into the
surface of this dark translucent body.
For the witnesses it is this way:
perpetual calling, failing to tire
in the liquid of dusk, a subtlety
as of ancient willows sweeping in the night.
Damien Uriah grew up on the Oklahoma side of the Ozark mountains. He currently lives in Spokane, Washington, where he writes, studies, and teaches literature. In addition to being a poet, Damien is a stone-mason, gardener, and musician. Some of his poetry can be found in such journals as Heron Tree and Three Line Poetry.