Holding Smoke

This dialogue binds me. It reaps
barriers from my shore,
releasing smoke over outstretched
water. Unopposed, it leads them

to me, makes them free
to stride or stumble through
this distance, whichever
gives them comfort. I resist

this movement and react, falling
back to its center, conceding only

dense borders. I distrust these
mappers’ goals for this space. They
take all for themselves,
surveying beaches and shaking trees

to measure out sections that
present the most pleasant view.
But if they find the center’s
weeds, refuse remaining after fire

that shed this place of its leaves,
of its eaves, of its shelter,
then they’d flee. They’d right
ships and sail into belligerent

seas, if they did see it, if I
revealed it, if I released it.