Our Tiny Boats Pass Like a Long History of Moons Reflected

 

Artist pushing his head in a grocery cart towards his execution, 2022 September 22

Some of you can see this shitty blog, many of you cannot. In an excellent metaphor, I've completely fucked up google, all six of my work related gmails, all three of my personal emails including the one associated with this shitty blog which now says I'm logged into this shitty blog but the shitty blog thinks it's logged in to my primary work email which doesn't think it's logged into blogger and is correct in thinking it shouldn't be. Google community forum is trying to help, I keep deepening the problem with each attempt at each suggestion they make

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MERCY

David Baker

Small flames afloat in blue duskfall, beneath trees

anonymous and hooded, the solemn trees—by ones

and twos and threes we go down to the water's level edge

with our candles cupped and melted into little pie-tins

to set our newest loss free. Everyone is here.

Everyone is wholly quiet in the river's hush and appropriate dark.

The tenuous fires slip from our palms and seem to settle

in the stilling water, but then float, ever so slowly,

in a loose string like a necklace's pearls spilled,

down the river barely as wide as a dusty road.

No one is singing, and no one leaves—we stand back

beneath the grieving trees on both banks, bowed but watching,

as our tiny boats pass like a long history of moons

reflected, or like notes in an elder's hymn, or like us,

death after death, around the far, awakening bend.