The line is thin, barely visible
but potentially loaded, requiring
a reckless plunge into mystery.
My groping along the uneven
bottom raises rusty cans,
time-smoothed rocks,
battered black shoes--
things for weighing later.
The depths surrender
no further artifacts

so I crawl forward,
battling the inevitable
tangles until I am hung up,
swaying from heavy black waves
between lofty phone poles;
energy hums thickly through
my hands, but the words
belong to someone else.

Then one big chime signals
an all aboard and I fall into place,
waiting by the welcoming window.
The golden land unfolds gently,
forming its own pattern of justice
as we bump toward our destination:
the end of the line, where poetry lives
for those who trust the journey.

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