My dear friend, I am drifting,
the distance between me and the shore,
wind-blown,
it is insurmountable;
I am weary,
asking this oaken deck to conjure
the strength of its original roots
when it turns to ask me the same.
I don’t know where they are or how
to find them,
slivers of wood in my fingers, I no longer know
the sea from the sky.
Why didn’t they tell us this was coming?
(they didn’t have the language)
You’ll see it on the horizon, you’ll feel it when it touches you,
standing on the shoreline, you won’t know what to do with it
swim to the sea
bury yourself in the sand
water unseen,
we hear its jagged lapping —
suspension might be the word we’re looking for after all
we are only sun-soaked, dust-covered
bodies when held in the light.