an anchor is heat, is weight, is motion
or stillness. the sun is bright but does not
reach into my heart, not at least
until its warmth is joined by your heat
your hard, heavy heat that rolls over at night,
that breathes softly and mumbles.
an anchor is reaching for miles and miles
and finding very little to hold onto,
but knowing that the real thing
the real, solid, beautiful thing
will be there waiting whenever i next admit
that i need to go home, to go home.
you are one lovely picture, a landscape
of rolling hills and an ancient sky,
a framed fireplace picture that hovers
over crackling spitting settling dying flames.
and i am an inhabitant, a figure that
barely breathes and never moves, prone
inside your captured spatial scene,
captioned in latin and sweating old salt.