With you calm, I throw
names at your surface;
friends, children, grandchildren,
hoping that you will rise,
rise and take the bait.
My line of familiar things
dangles, drifting in your subconscious;
occasionally hooking an
expression I recognize,
which, when lost, drops
to a face rippling its many waves.
I sometimes wish you could drown,
and in drowning gain release,
drift like flotsam from
this constant struggle,
this thrashing, splashing
for sane air,
that leaves me wiping your eyes,
your wet face.
If you've any comments on his poem, Christopher
Major would be pleased to hear from