Simon Brod

I saw you try to draw it close,
not content with what every sailor says:
that the mind’s eye always finds its line,
that even when the sea conceals it
with a wall of water or a steep hollow
or a glassy mirror that only shows the sky,
man still knows
how to be upright, how to lie,
how to set a boundary for his eye.
And I saw your shoulders stiffen with unease,
your eyes grow restless, more and more distressed
that others never see things straight and true,
that their perception just can’t stretch
to see what your eye sees,
till deeply vexed
you had to show the proof, own the truth:
you fetched it, fastened it,
anchored it, slanted it,
made the world tilt, incline to fit your view
and I, who for years stood steady as one of your crew,
found myself at an angle too skew to scale,
lost my footing and fell overboard
as you sailed
and vanished over the edge.