It is true that to a certain extent
that we know ourselves
through the eyes of others,
truths and fictions projected,
yet ourselves remain protected
lest we dissolve entire
into some prospectors dream
or sleepless twilight.
Gentle sips of blood and grace
transpose our likeness
the score becomes kinder, perhaps
deeper.
an ecstatic hook,
like water split on rock
or the bend of sapling in spring.
A balance between us
seeks to sharpen our wits,
to save each from the worst of falls.
Our shores, forever foreign
share the same horizon,
the same subterranean tides.
It is a harsh winter there
Is it not?