Failed Voyages

Maybe there never was

wind in my sails.

Maybe the calm, clear sea

I sailed upon with you

was only my lightheadedness.

I scan the empty surface, long and gray,

for a horizon that’s anyone’s guess.

I cannot keep an even keel.

Stiff-masted arms,

nothing to billow their smothering sleeves

as I stand all akimbo, imprisoned with asthma,

bluer than blue.

It couldn’t have been you.

You couldn’t have pulled the rug

out from under me

if I’m standing on my head,

if up has always been down.

Now the sky is where it ought to be—

under my muddy heels.

Washed ashore, I can barely rise.

I am clay,

and I only weep

to  keep from drying up and blowing away.