Dead Water

Between despair and hope, two continents,
   a vast sea lies, blank whiteness on the chart.
   No waves, no cartographer’s fanciful decorations—
a simple nothing, nondescript, immense.

Here I tread water. The taste and smell of salt,
   irreducible facts, offer no explanations
   to map the trackless journeys of the heart:
how I came here, whether I’m at fault.

Navigation is not the answer. Unabsolved,
   a turn to consult the compass is mere self-violence.
Hope is not a problem to be solved.
      When at last I confess I can do no more—
   I wait. Let silence still my soul to silence,
      and dream of wind from off some distant shore.