Another Thing

Like fossil shells embedded in a stone, you are an absence, rimmed calligraphy, a mouthing out of silence, a way to see beyond the bedroom where you lie alone. So why not be the vast, antipodal cloud you soloed under, riven by cold gales? And why not be the song of diving whales, why not the plosive surf   below the road? The others are one thing. They know they are. One compass needle. They have found their way and navigate by perfect cynosure. Go wreck yourself once more against the day and wash up like a bottle on the shore, lucidity and salt in all you say.