Howard Firkin
The line your skin makes breaking water marks
the outline of an unknown continent:
its mountains, castellated battlements;
its sea-lapped forest, strange and thick and dark.
I see each inlet inked in sweet, black line.
I draw the world that other eyes reveal:
the foreign shores I’ve never stood upon.
Perhaps I only see you now you’re gone
and draw you only to believe you’re real,
to feel your body close and think it mine.
The night’s horizon line conceals your form
but only amplifies the breakers’ roar.
The night is heavy on my chest and warm
and rocks me slowly closer to that shore.
the outline of an unknown continent:
its mountains, castellated battlements;
its sea-lapped forest, strange and thick and dark.
I see each inlet inked in sweet, black line.
I draw the world that other eyes reveal:
the foreign shores I’ve never stood upon.
Perhaps I only see you now you’re gone
and draw you only to believe you’re real,
to feel your body close and think it mine.
The night’s horizon line conceals your form
but only amplifies the breakers’ roar.
The night is heavy on my chest and warm
and rocks me slowly closer to that shore.
