‘Till this day, I am still sailing without lighthouses.
All this digital information at my fingers but none
of it cures my seizing illness as I hurl off the bow.
Every morning I rock and roll out of a pitched bed,
like the scuffed baseball ready to be tossed into fans.
Red stitching worn and its browned skin bat bruised.

We have crossed the Sea of Atlas but never together.
Parted African borne clouds on separate itineraries.
I guess the meals have been enjoyable and the free movies
gave us time to catch up on overly extended trilogies.
In that instance they filled the air with magic and hope,
while furtively painting smiles on unsuspecting faces.

Those scintillating basins and avenues are not foreign to me.
Maps have been taped to my wall to clearly layout most roads.
Many streets can even be traced with my .07 blue mechanical pencil.
The distance is measurable and there are multiple ways to arrive.
Any of my travel ready backpacks could get me through this trip.
Hum, the gray one is ready but would the mat be welcoming.

Expostulating currents have eroded the small Island we almost found.
Dragged the plates into a depth only discovered by crawling magma.
“Hi, how was your flight…are you tired” were my first tocsin words.
I grabbed your luggage before making our way into the ground.
Two bags filled with 60 kilograms of zirconia’s and Café Bustello.                                       The truth was never declared, it was left on the parapeted runway.