Lost at Sea
The wind whips up — its breath
warm — and I am whisked away.
Once in a while I drag
my legs to stall my movement,
but
I never kick to get myself anywhere.
A gull flies overhead and I shake
my fist (our hands are never so small
as when compared against flat horizons)
at him in a jealous fit. But he
flies on.
Storms come. The sea boils and I am
flung, a leaf wind torrent blown air.
Sometimes I dive as deep as I can go.
But my breath cannot hold for more
than a few seconds.
I see nothing anyway — it’s too dark.
Bermuda, France, China, Greenland:
I’ve been to each, but never
of my own volition.
Tags: Poetry
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