Thule

I carry fabricated peace –
a shard of mirror
in my shaking hand –

and gift my mother’s voice
and father’s intent, but

this permanent misunderstanding
And everything else silent, parting lips
And flitting tongues flickering light ahead

And behind, the same, a childhood imagination
I once ferried in the other
impotent one.

Progress is
a raft with no compass,
a sun with no dial,
and a survivor
staring glibly ahead to the race
then shamefully behind at acceptance,
breathing in 

the water.