Crashing and swirling
swells - oh my soul,
queasy in gut
and throat
from
movement's chaos.
I'm looking for
the line at the horizon.
The anticipated
journey of purpose,
planned by book's light,
has turned
into night lunges.
Where is
the line at the horizon?
Exuberant youth
with half a map: no land,
a waiting search
to be,
at the line at the horizon.
