WHEN EVERYMAN’S AN ISLAND
Drifting far from the main
we retreat to new movies in our dreams,
that illusion that we are central,
as individuals, in the survival of beings -
investing in empty games,
embracing moments with nothing to show
from our hands, hearts and intellect
except a greater distance from the whole,
we have become islands – even
as a tree frog clings to the door at dawn
on his swinging, perpendicular plane
after harvesting the glass and a light left on.
Our tracks from the dark thicket
have been erased. We are free to forget
where we come from, untied
to drift upon every sea of regret.