Waitarere, July ’09
I leave the light on, turn down the fire
but get lost anyway.
I choose a large dark log as a reference point
but everything is dark.
The moon highlights the whitecaps
of my sneakers
but it’s too close and untethered
to rely on as a guide.
Drift wood, piles of seaweed or washed up corpses?
tracks left by the retreating tide.
Tyre marks of an all-terrain.
Next time I’ll draw an arrow on the sand
that palimpsest of names
hearts, initials, pictures of boats
arrows pointing every direction home.
Explorers who crossed whole oceans
must have tuned their eyes so finely
to notice each shift and twitch of starlight,
like trying to read crushed pipi shells