sunlight
filtered through a set of curtains
moth-bitten and uncertain
caught in your usurpal spirit
your rays like a knife

my flotilla turned flotsam
7 seas turned an ocean
the call of a seagull
heard ashore and away

my temper turned temple
stabbed and immobile
I want more than anything
communion with you

no one really knows
who guides our migration
it feels nice to finally
be lying still