2800 miles
brings a closeness
that 135 miles cannot

roughshod in the
palm of these sheets
grasping at concepts
while listless and
threadbare
listening to the sacred geometry
acting out on the ground below

truth laps at the shores of the Atlantic
proud, yet naïve
just, yet uncalibrated
she will send to me
her fairest daughter
that I will not long
for her gentle name

a reminder of
the good that exists inside
and that which once
welled inside of me

that the weapon is
always drawn before it is
laid to rest
safe of its target
free at last
from its arrogant pleading

I close my eyes
and swallow
this morning night
that is but a memory
to the future

© Tom Watters  3/29/07