The Art of
Storm-riding
I could not decipher the living riddle of my body
put it to sleep when it hungered, and overfed it
when time came to dream
I nearly choked on the forked tongue of my spirit
between the real and the ideal, rejecting the one
and rejected by the other
I still have not mastered that art of storm-riding
without ears to apprehend howling winds
or eyes for rolling waves
Always the weather catches me unawares, baffled
by maps, compass, stars and the entire apparatus
of bearings or warning signals
Clutching at driftwood, eyes screwed shut, I tremble
hoping the unhinged night will pass and I remember
how once I shielded my flame.
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