When I was young, I’d suck up sherbert,
fun like a fool, take chances at dances:
looking for miracles, I’d go straight
into any action with a hatful of fancies.
Not small, the sky would be a sprawling
realm with joy, bewilderments bending
me, out of breath, as I boarded a trawler
to fish seven seas and land where I’m landing.
But, these days, I sail slowly
- bones aching lately –
and my islands of touch
keep it warm in the South.
As far as I can tell, there is no quicksand
with me on a road - heading West - round the bend.