Posture

Posture

If asked my deepest fear,
I wouldn't say
the flames, tied to the post of martyrdom 

or banging from the inside of a house— 

not millstones hanging from my neck to drown

in front of chanting crowds, to hear their cheers

become a hum become a silence deep

as where I’m sinking— not even empty years

of memory become like TV static,

a channel no one watches, the volume turned

down low to hush the senseless buzz. No, 

it is a Wednesday evening, sometime in June, 

and standing on a beach somewhere, the slow

philosophy of waves on thoughtful waves, 

and up above God’s promise to Abraham—

or maybe late October, the yellow leaves

beneath my hiking boots, and resting on 

an overlook to count the countless bumps

of mountain tops—

                              and feeling, still, significant.