Steppingstones
The grass is slick and cresting.
Between a thinned-out thicket,
a white light ogles through it.
A faceless sky is elevator gray,
nothing to measure, no steppingstones
for see-through lighthouses.
Here in the rootless byways
of shiftless realities,
treetops break the surface,
of leaden puddles,
frogs perch,
dripping waterlogged croaks.
There are no shores
for somnambulant seagulls.
I am too lightheaded,
miasmic margins
numb the humdrum.
Footsteps crunch upon clouds,
doubt tugs at
'out of depth' ankle bones.
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