My consciousness is

a lighthouse and my mind the ship.

There is no fog, I can see the coast

and I am on auto-pilot. The shiny metal pilot

drives on the highway or does paperwork

at the factory or writes a check

for the rent. But the fog settles on

the water, they are reunited bosom

buddies and I bid farwell to all

warnings. It is hard to steer

in these moments. I am pilot and

sailor, I am in charge of the poop deck

and I am altering coarse starboard. My

tongue is tied to you,

lighthouse.

And when it rains, I see the light

through prisms, I see the light in

its full, turgid spectrum dancing

with the water. And I am wet. And

she is wet. And we have come this far

together. My spirit floats within her.