DRIFTING

To turn the hull around,
to work the wheel against the way
the waves always cycle
is the only choice to make.
The only soothing sail I set
my sights on relies on
my powers of persuasion.
To no longer feed the needs I
breathe upon,
from no lightness of your care
I stay afloat,
a bright-faced buoy, a barnacle on stranded
sandbar somewhere,
bobbing in the same way
as if customary.
Waters rise and falter,
currents propel and lull,
the depths of the ocean known
only by ones who sink completely.
And yet I'm adrift,
ignorant of reassuring shore,
unnerved by nibbles and dartings
I sense beneath me.

A Typical Magician

You read the scripted map-
cryptically attractive words
repeated from the page I reveal each day.
With the movements, the syllables,
you solidify your station
from miles away.

What an inscrutable measure of distance-
close enough to touch knuckles, twist limbs,
yet disconnected deep within
the skin I sweat against.
You've never been living in more remote place while
leaving breath fresh on my face.
It's the best damn magic trick there's ever been.

I remember the game you perfected-
guessing the card I chose after a swift shuffle
and cut
of the deck.
It was impressive, I admit, but
the fact I allowed you
to confess yourself to me in such
obvious metaphor without
enforcing the door ashames me still.
I knew the logic behind it
but didn't have gall enough
to call you out.
No wonder you were so good;
your crowd poses herself
easily pleased.

Fingers flicking like grease
through options,
your eyes remain fixed on the floor.
You read my action,
hid reaction,
answered every turn in deceptive truth.
The correct card.
The exact suit.
The game that does nothing but
awe the guesser into being satisfied
with loss.

Myopia

The pinhole cameras we made in art class-
You perch them on a ledge, on the ground
and allow the sun to set the image,
a timed experiment of what will fade, what will remain.
And from this handheld cardboard box
a picture forms, forms of figures frozen
in paper-light poses.
Your arms were crossed,
your legs balancing on tiptoes,
your face indistinct and underexposed.
And I hold the photo in my hands now,
and I can't recall what the light did
as it hit your transparent eyes.