Secured Cushions, Beer and Olives
       

The boat of revelation has whiteness and chrome,
no map or compass; only our thirst

carries us to sea
where the Pacific speaks in tongues,

what you require, what
you call prayer.

People are healed here, people
with crystals on their breasts,

drifting with currents.
Days do not come one after the other

forever, days are not a stretch of water,
days are waves that break.

We sail until the correlates of horizon
release themselves to ocean's open expanse.

Without our locations we do not
need to say, I am here,

you are here, or I am here,
you are not here.

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Copyright © 2014 Lisa C. Krueger All rights reserved
from Talisman
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission