For Gavin
It’s hard to see the future as a land
rising from magma deposits, bright
rivers of lava, pyroclastic clouds,
volcanic vomitus boiling from blue waves.
I must have some sort of blindspot.
I feel my way forward like Gloucester
in King Lear, smelling my way to Dover.
I shower. When I pull a washcloth between
my legs, after my morning dump, things
in Dover can look pretty bad. I hang
the soiled cloth on a steel rail to dry,
then I soap up my hands. I pluck my peach
cleft aside, rinsing off an asterisk—
the Southern star I have so often used
to orient myself at night, sliding
through the sea in search of spices. I
survey my world through a tiny vent,
a window cracked to let the steam escape.
I can see Queens: a tall oak tree, and three
old ladies with Ziplocks full of cooked rice.
The Fates! A Buddhist with a bowl accepts
their offerings with a bow of thanks.
I’m thankful, too—for what I can perceive:
green leaves and gratitude. Tomorrow might
erupt like a volcano, I suppose,
blowing me sky-high. I’ll cope. Maybe
I will land in your arms, if it does.
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