Through what I’d perceive in the sky’s mirror,
the sea was a ragged mariner
cast on the jagged rocks.
All the debris i would carry with me from the past,
the horizon could no longer forecast
or keep from floating away
from some logical ideal.
The line was a separation,
sea and sky
silky and undefined,
an impenetrable teardrop,
weightless, impression of color
in a superstitious and darkened course.
With no compass it flows over the sides of the canvass,
like an art that is infinite in its reading,
it depends on the witness.
For all who need to wander and father words,
further imagination, the borders are reinforced
than blurred by travel.
The intuitively known is murdered in bloody sunsets,
red robed in the glow of twilight
thrown across the liquid’s edge,
like a veil from the eyes
the westernmost ledge is
illuminated.
From there it is one step
inward to perfect
or join the drowned by shipwreck.
All the blind and rudderless,
with their mangled craft lodged in the sand
like a sullen crop half buried
in the perennial mystery upon which we stand.
It is a precarious position
when a landscape of fear
offers no sanctuary from
being pulled into a perpetual wasteland.
Not many know the history
beneath a city.
Soiled reflections stare back
from clean facades of steel and glass,
vast monuments of shadow
creating the illusion
that no sweat and blood were shed
during development’s colossal intrusion.
There are moments you see it clearly
as a shaft of light whose
passage holds a thread of jewels,
a glittering sequin to the narrative
where the brightest of all, the moon
becomes a beacon in the darkest canopy
to see me through.
yakskinpocketnotes 