I’m like the moon,
a prisoner of your gravity.
I slowly circle your equator.
Brush against your lush tropics.
Finger the wetness of your Panama Canal.
Then curl around the swollen belly of your Africa,
until I wake to nuzzle
in the moist forgetfulness of your Pacific Trough.
My tongue flits,
exploring every inlet,
My mission: to warm you
pole to pole, to melt your glacier,
your deep, your hidden icebergs.
To free you from your Fortress of Solitude,
your do-it-yourself cloister. To free you
from your enemy: your too, too reticent self.
For more on Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue, please see our Authors page.