The self-portrait was arranged: I took an ocean
nobody saw, waved its leylines like streamers
as I marched into the new unknown.
I could not, could not plant myself.
The highest gravity called me like drumming in my guts,
or a flare set off. I was burning so slowly.
Raw glass made a disparate thread,
chaos on the terrain as if it’s only
record grooves or a lock of a lover’s hair.
Some people build paper boats
out of blissfully folded maps
Me, I let the invisible ocean
spin in a drapery of ice.
I was the one in orbit.