**Poetry: Falling

Falling

She asks us to travel

to a place without words

a place of connection

with ones who have gone

before.

I think of the earth-body

groping blindly 

in the falling white

and I resist-

stringing sentences,

as every writer must,

like crumbs to find our 

way back through the storm.

There was a time

I dipped into pools of paint,

Black, covering a page

but for a streak of light

which I clung to for life. 

Losing words can feel 

like this. 

Or any of these: 

The blank page staring back,

taunting, with silence.

The pencils locked in silver cages. 

Sexton on shelves.

The lure. 

Or this:

The clay bottom of the riverbed

fertile and moist. 

The pull of bodies. 

You and I

falling

(gasping 

for breath)

into the sea

of each other’s eyes.