I've always been too happy
with what I write and I suspect, not entirely
with justification. Criticisms, appreciations; appreciations,
suggestions; suggestions, complaints - where would I be
but where I am?
Without them: drifting
in a wide, spacious void of my own
making, created by shockwave from the center
of an impact crater, or
a spreading wake from the dropped stone
that is a piece of work
- my work.
to the bottom
without raising so much as a bubble.
The surface's smoothness returns.
Echoes of diminishing ripples
finally reach onlookers gathered by the shore, who
gape out at the point where the dive fell through
and, catching each others' eyes,
Must be pleased
But I can't hear you.
I was pleased, but now
I am sinking down
to where there's never been any air.