Glassbottomed

Amplified blueness,

that is to say, I can hear it,

though it isn’t music

or a voice but a self

apart from self itself. A handiwork.

Its horrible it-ness.

If only the plain brown splotch—

my home, my head—had a place,

a say, the way rancid meat still

has protein. Something to offer.

A little brown dog waves its paw

as if to say, I know all about it.

The it-ness. Broken into bits

so sharp everything gets cut to

sharp bits. Anything small has a kind

of integrity—whole, ridiculous—

god simply cannot have.

I mean, where’s the magic

or the logic in being It

and hiding It? In seeing

foolishness, remaining wise?

Everyone’s mouth of music

swallowed with salt. Oh, to be

in those waters when it matters.

A prayer is like a fishmouth,

opening dumbly onto just more

water at best or a hook

if it really wants an answer.

God (his blue holiness, his dry

drunk) is no real mystery,

unlike the wind-taut sail

and shining gulls and tiny souls

at everlasting work on the plain

brown boat in a bottle on the sea.