terra firma

landmarks are scarce
in the middle of the sea,
and i never learned
to read the stars--
muffled though they are anyway.
feelings betray the course,
when only bearings remain
left from their port
that fades from memory
with each rocking.
destination is the only map;
direction is no solid ground
for my head to lay and not swirl,
no shore to sink into sand:
cool and constant
warm and soft.

perhaps it isn't so far.
and one of these days i'll wake
to darkness no more,
to the clearing of the clouds,
to a land that rises with the sun.
or at least a bird
that has to land somewhere--
like me.

then again,
sand is not solid.
and in this tempest
as more is thrown over,
what sinks is now lost,
and i cannot lay here any longer--
my feet
do not need the immovable,
but need to stand
and walk
on water.