Unable to release ourselves to the feeble light of what our future holds, it becomes part of our weight-posture-gesture. We embrace reality, as a drowning man wrapped around a buoy of unfulfilled yearnings. At last becoming a part of the landscape into which we descend. From a swift movement of will, desire lifts. We walk a coastline recollecting memories like dying silver fish in the sun. Tossing flat stones-- flat wishes skipping over waves, washed back to meet us, shifting the sands beneath our weight. Some stay afloat, others dissolve from any discernible view. Swim out to the middle to catch them in the sinking. Then lay across the flat line of the horizon. I would turn my belly skyward, squinting towards the eastern edge, searching for blue eyes to rise. Wishing they might meet me halfway along the southern rim.