Ballast

You notice a weight
in your feet after years of not
noticing anything much:
as if something’s achieving
the vertical – easily: day
gently ceases – lends dusk
its suspense – sends a breeze

towards the touch of a thought
you now know you had
always unconsciously fought:
the impending event has arrived –
in a darkening blue cool
dimension of sky. Evening’s
clarified sigh puts the lie to all

notions of push; there’s no drive
to aliveness: the sneaky
odd thing of you cackles
and grunts as if nothing had
ever required a back or a front.
You reach for the cup – put it up
to your mouth – let it flow

south past tongue, throat
and gullet to lap ‘round the trunk
of you: slowly – a palpable sap
grapples through to the roots:
warming, forming its gravitas –
drunk from the chalice.
Balance takes ballast.




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