do we in our moving
move toward life or death
do we in turn sell, burn & prosper do we raze our haven as death?
Stroke by stroke drawing us
Out there? Father of rhythms,
deep wave, mother,
There is no out there.
All is open.
Open Water. Open I.
Open hearth Open stone crucible of love crux of I
Women, ships, lost voices.
Whatever has dissolved into our waves.
I a lost voice
moving, calling you
on the edge of the moment that is now the center.
From the open sea.
Whatever has dissolved in our bones
we recall the tender
the edges recall, the stone, the work of the sea as the breaking out of open water.
Lines in bold are from Muriel Rukeyser’s “The Outer Banks”