At noon I eat light, the light
of the world; in the evening I eat a sailboat
with its spinnaker full of last bits.
The rudder turns my heart, & leaving behind a buoy, a line, an anchor,
I drift over the surface of what could be linseed oil.
I am the same as a loon, a paintbrush
calling for paint. Thickly I comprehend all languages
including the keel
that holds me upright. The star field above the hillside dotes upon the ironclad
colors of the insomniac, yet
in this space, faced with immediate
danger, one cannot help asking again for the invisible.