The Analyst

There are times I see it clearly.
When I peer at its soul and
witness the fragile truth,
marvel at its simplicity.

At others it shields its face
like a crescent moon,
shy
reluctant
obscured by anonymity
and I beg the night, calling in the dark.

It comes as a reminder
that it isn’t something to be grasped
like a problem
or pinned
like an argument,

but something to be caught in without reservation
like a wave, or a free fall,
unnerving,

and I perceive my history, all of it,
as yarn for the weaver,
so that I consider my failures and call them worthy,
useful in ways I don’t understand.

Like God, it will not be boxed
but beckons me to jump into bottomless pools,
deep
calling unto deep.