Prepositions are like a map,
a treasure map for an undecipherable
island. Both of us
have half a map and the treasure
is in closing the gap. But
the directions are an infinity of bends,
besides, beneath and below.
At low tide, before the grieving
comes, a flood of air. In front of us,
pristine pathways and forks and dead ends,
an island of means, epiphany dust.
(Prepositions are like propositions:
you can’t navigate without them.)
Despite all this time, all the directions
I’ve taken have led to nothing.
Time gives no quarter.
So…it’s time to switch pirates.
My piece of the map says this
and you have to take it up now:
“Find the hill above the cove,
the tree on the hill,
the rock under the tree,
the sand under the rock,
the chest below the sand,
the heart in my chest.”