As we precariously skim
the skin of the world,
at times, suddenly
the depth beneath us
opens itself, reveals
itself to our eyes
(our eyes, tired
always on watch).
From deep-sky oceans,
from cold waters
rise
incarnate
incarnadine
the huge and ineluctable
motion and grace-
the world's soul ascends
to spray the air
with its glittering
exhalation. The soul
comes up
to arc
and glide,
to show itself,sidling
up to us,here,
slowing to match our weaker progress.
Touching us lightly,
(our fragility alarming),
nudging past us,
fast, terrifying
and gentle.
Its ancient skin lucent, alive
with all history and
none, alive within the sheen
of its element,
We see its eye.
Its speaks our name
in a different language, the timbre
shifting our heartbeat
and breath.
It leaves us through the liquid door
of its own making.
The sea closes.
Following the small
slive of our own bow wave,
we go on.
We shudder.
We are changed.
from Parabola, Summer 1996, The Soul.
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