by Michael Macklin

We swim out to the smaller world
where weathered wood
holds its place
tugging at its mucky tether.

Spread our dripping bodies
on sun-warmed boards
at the edge of safety
while the hills watch.

The deeper sea calls,
a loon echoes.
We are climbing ribbons of cloud,
floating into dreams that move
above and below.

Do you feel the current
passing through us?

Do you see the house of heaven?