Landing

Rosemary Sullivan
From:   Blue Panic. Black Moss Press, 1991, p 46

The clouds move with the precision
of waves, lunge over our backs,
drag us down to drowning.

Below: the Andes' jagged crawl,
crustaceans lumbering
under sea weight.

We land
on the floor of your psyche,
hang by a thread, scour
rusted decks of years
for salvage.

We fear the thing feeding there in the dark.
Once you owed it a life.

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