I bob and weave/gasp for air
Choke on the waves of my own home-self.
Surfacing, I am adrift, again –
Singular, supine, searching.
The shore in sight but always foreign
No matter how many times I land.
Longing, leering, leaning –
Never touching what I reach for.
Though the waters are troubled
I know who I am in them.
To be a fish, no mind to muddy the picture,
Must be better than this compass-less life.