Adrift

At what point does a word, any word—rouse or flight—
cease claiming what it means and become?

Say rouse slowly, again and again, and like a piece
of porous drift life will leave and enter it.  

A boatman dreamt an angel threaded needles through
his shirt and sang Thy hand is mine, which is not thine.

But the story of men is a raft of burnt haloes.
There are other dreams within the dream, other

needles, many threads. We may never cross the river.
The story of the raft is more raft-like than the raft.

[from The Burning Door, Tiger Bark Press, 2014]