far beneath the waves

there's a vast old forest,

thick with milky brine and

the debris of bygone affections.

the things that swim there

watch me from time to time

with great interest

as i trudge home, hat-bowed,

and toss them the occasional morsel.

there is no self-pity in the forest,

and there are no good apologies;

there is only work,

and the echoes of dreams

which glow in the brine

with the clarity and softness

of a psalm.