Points of Reference

A lighthouse in the mountains, and
what I’ve lost is the ocean.

If I were to leap, to cast myself
into the sea of fog, would it
catch me, buoy me up, and let me
drift among the swells?

The stars will guide me home,
or perhaps into the watery depths,
or the belly of a shark.
Everything has risks.

And would my bones wash up
upon the shore, bare and bleached,
stripped down to the essentials

wonder, and
a glimpse of fang-filled grace.

Perhaps some moonlit figure,
traversing the beach,
might happen across
a mandible, or scapula, and

casting eyes towards
distant ridges,
would dream of stone.