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.