It’s all about the metaphor:
some days, Lord,
you’re simple to grip
as an earthenware
cup, the satisfying
purl of two rough surfaces
well met. Other days,
what? You,
at a great remove.
Me, a child, seamless
with need, clenched
and fisted. Growling,
grieving.
Listener, Inquisitor,
Thief of me, Thirst of me,
I’m completely at sea tonight,
and this craft
is stalled,
oars shored, and only
darkness adrift
in my wake.
I know: Lean farther,
pull harder,
but I’m lost in this
liquid abyss,
yakking away,
doing all the talking,
as always, lugging only
my own dead weight. Don’t
just sit there,
swamp me or strand me,
but make yourself known.
Pull your oar,
or it’s over between us!
And this time
I mean it, I tell you!
Again.
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can so relate to this. thank you.