I was on the edge of the mapped earth, where I rode
the waves of anguish and lash, bandied about the
suffering crush of the water’s cruel intent to drown.
The gulls mad dash, lurch and startle, made the suffering
full of feathers and flight, as if our deepest desires are
held by tenuous traps of wire and want.
How deep, dear Emily, do you suggest digging into
the ocean before breaking off in breaths of tears and
rankled reefs of isolation or idolatry?
You see, adoration has its place among the pricks
and pokes of thorns, but faith is fission of sea and
storm while lying in rags on rocks of rust.