Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue Two

Lisa C. Krueger

Secured Cushions, Beer and Olives

The boat of revelation has whiteness and chrome, no map or compass; only our thirst carries us to sea where the Pacific speaks in tongues, what you require, what you call prayer. People are healed here, people with crystals on their breasts, drifting with currents. Days do not come one after the other forever, days are not a stretch of water, days are waves that break. We sail until the correlates of horizon release themselves to ocean's open expanse. Without our locations we do not need to say, I am here, you are here, or I am here, you are not here.