I stand as if blind and in total darkness
because my look no longer finds its way to you.
The mad rush of days is
only a curtain, behind which you exist.
I stare up to see if it is not lifted,
the curtain behind which my life lives.
My life’s strength, my life’s necessity
and yet: my death.
Neither am I the two dark seas,
Nor the sinuous strait.
Neither can I drown in the current
Nor run aground on the high jagged cliffs.
I thought once that I was a navigator.
But the sextant moves eerily upright as if guided
By the hand of some phantom or ghost.
—Me, July 2016