Here is the river of darkness where I stand and I peer down where the ghosts are and they seem to be speaking the words that I have spoken in poems and prose. I am not sure. The words are always floating up and making a bubble of sound that seems to come –from voices that are stored there.
The river of darkness floats a body or two every day. A poet has a net of her own called her soul. You expect nothing there but the bones.
An eye may stare back out of that netting.
A lost finger. A baby thumb. The brittle clump of hair.
And whatever else you find there.
A poem is a way to see.
A poem is a way to make peace with the end.
A poem is a way to love the world and to receive love in return.
If you write poems all you are doing is going to the river of darkness and making this place known to your soul.
So that when it is time for the great darkness to arrive---and usurp the body and mind—then the soul recognizes the place where she must enter –and she will go. There will be no fear. She has written poems about this destination –and it is clear –that this is the home where ---all souls of non-believers are sent.
And no fires of hell for the poets—we tried to make our souls shine.
And the one who creates everything---believes –we did the best that we could ---and though we did not believe in him---we gave up our lives so that the living word –could sing