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.