water

in the year of the fish

I am drawn to bodies of water.

the Atlantic insinuating itself into my childhood, --

and here I pause, wistful, at Lake Michigan.

I am drawn to vastness, into which I can place myself,

a drop of something, an insignificance.

the water moves with mathematical precision.

cross-legged, sand grating in my toes,

I watch its turbulence, impotent: content.

there is comfort in a null direction:

no, as you turn to the east, you cannot go that way.

your life is a constant chain of currents;

floating on your back in the undulating tides.

you are obsessed with the horizon:

the juxtapositions --

in my head are the oceans and the rivers,

a maelstrom, a sucking into the depths.

and I am here, still;

on my back in the water,

drifting towards the horizon in the pull of the tides.