Two
If we are lost under the sun, coming face to face with our singular reflection,
Outliers dancing, and the captains of pleasure steering us around disoriented space,
Then you, guided by moss instead, veering from the sticky path and leering zone, alone
Where the bog plots and the grasses understand what is lost to cameras and a drone,
Progressing with meandering, up there day dreaming, just to the side of work. Our
Pilgrim-messenger, silhouetted against grinding roots and kaleidoscope. Un-accommodated
And unsuspecting, cladding yourself in innocence and an ill-adapted role, you sell a dummy to the Gods,
Leave them for dead, and give the slip, site-stepping and blindsiding, to the Big Bushwackers.
Making your allies with the tiny things, the sheep-sized clouds and animals the two shapes of light,
You dress yourself in waves and brandish lines to break lines. Your ground is held.
Scrambling to attention, Hannah and Destina allow you to suspend joy in a mesh of your own spinning;
Your protective pads and gauntlets work like magic instruments to track down fun.
While, we, suspended, neither down below nor up above, come face to face with the simulation
Of our pleasures, curved around a screen and bright as any bewildered sun.