Hooks

Slipping out of consciousness I feel the wood of the bow,
The string, the notch of the arrows within my hand.

For Plato the soul has evidently two parts because of the archer
Who both stretches forward and pulls back to send his arrow.

Now I dream the archer and know that
In this fierce pulling back against myself
My soul flies forward.

*****

I have no sense of dignity.
I am the dust to your feet.
Or rather I am the cool water washing your feet in the evening when you return home.
Or if not water, I am the cup that holds the water, poured out, emptied over your feet.

Now I am empty, I am nothing.
I have no sense of dignity.

*****

I've fallen down again
below that fabric on which everything is happening.
Somehow in the middle of it all
I fell out
And tumbled down into this inky stuff below the bottom of the stairs.

I don't think that with your hooks
Your best shiny hooks
Or with your careful nets
You could ever pull me up and make me one of you again.

I am sitting down here
Singing your songs
But something else must happen

*****

I suspect I should give up the sea entirely
Boats, the sails, the rudder, the occasional oar,
All these with everything for catching fish
The line, the hooks, the nets, the pails,
The small sundry things kept in salt worn boxes
- Even the poetics of the sea, the colors,
The taste, the wind, the moods, the desiring waves -
I suspect I should give up everything pertaining to the sea
And go inland.