I guess I cut an anchor chain last week
and watched it sink to sand without a sound,
but I don’t want a moorage I don’t seek
and longer at that tether would have drowned
respect and swamped esteem beneath a tide
of curling pull. I’m wobbly but I’m well,
and shaking off the brine I’m clean inside,
with room to dance and circumstance to tell.

The tension gone, the chain engraves on sand
its serpent track of temporary lace.
It leaves impression I can understand
who couldn’t see around its dark embrace.
I’d sooner drift away than sink below
the weight of love that can no longer grow.