I never imagined I’d be lost at my destination.

I always thought I was the director

of propellers, through blue seas

and pale sand. My veins pointed to North

with lines that stretched

across soaked maps, matching the ones on my palms.

With coordinates branded on my palms,

I commanded sails.  The destination

that was docked on my mind was still a stretch.

Yet I always knew there would be arrows to the direction

that would tide me north,

as I summoned seas.

There were ripples I could see,

the palms

of trees waved me into the riptide toward North

and the calculated destination.

As I directed

sand bars, a sense of shaking hands stretched.

A stretch

of shoreline was like my hairline, seas

roaring and crashing at my forehead. The direct

current of electricity echoed with steel palms

of oars and anchors that would leave me locked at my destination.

They hummed beneath me as North

shined left of the rising sun. But as I dreamed of northern

plasma that would lead me to different skies and stretch

to destined

districts, I realized that I was skimming sea.

When I held the foreign soil, palming

every grain, I found the seas were not mine to direct.

Without direction,

I want to stray South from North,

and loosen the grip of my palm

on my ship’s wheel to latitude and longitude that stretch

over equators and sea

to blank destinations.

Let me relapse to find my destination from North,

with closed palms and stretched spontaneity

to move against the direction of sea waves.