How we begged for those discarded worn out Tires to be bestowed upon us, the black steeds For scrawny knights, a stout twig both the sword And the whip to keep the bicycle hoop rolling Over unpaved roads and empty lots, bare feet churning Behind them through all seasons; summer dust or Monsoon mud was all alike to us, the country bordered With rice paddies and by mango orchards needed vigilant Patrol by us tykes, as we sent up smoke signals from Bonfires or invented secret codes and swore blood oaths. There was mighty yelling in the wind we raced for speed, Before time overtook us all, and scattered us here and there.

[1] On what sea does my makeshift Skiff of a heart sail, land locked?

The churn of water, the spume of breath, No chart to navigate this invisible time, A jerry can of words at one end, half full, To fish for meaning, and a playful gull Wheeling around in spirals, a sky bolted Weather wave pointing to a breathing shore.

And what possibilities at landfall? A room, Some vine shade, a plate of flowers, throats Humming through the evening, and under a chintz Quilt your body of moonstone to sleep against.

[2] But this terror too, which swims alongside with its Shark blade-fin, the molar scars that the body hefts With trembling and salty curses, through the grunt Work of heaving water from the gunwales overboard; All this to keep this stick tub afloat till the port of call.

I think I need more grace that I thought, to keep This skyward gaze at what must be love's gull.