As much as I would
fly to you,
you must arc to me
on gilded wing
along lines,
half lit.
By grains of trust
I ride blind,
one foot out of stirrup,
anticipating another
compound fracture.
You may find me
settled at the far side of the sea,
twisting on a pebbled shore,
toasting bread over a driftwood fire,
turning a split stick
into shelter.