I’m a tardy tightrope walker,
a savage forgiven and
made to walk
carrying a fork,
whose use I can choose,
or throw away and substitute
for some other impediment.

The smooth sea is
charming me up to my neck
in a dream necklace of steam.
Water turns to tears
and my drama is to catch fish
and to make a wish.
Who knows what’s coming?

I certainly grasp the moments,
not knowing if I should be here
trying to be myself again,
or if, how and why
the mainframe runs so wild.