That night we were sure
we were meant to be larger than this –
our days chewed to ragged edges
by invisible silverfish of doubt,
the wilderness of our interiors
whittled down to embattled networks
of trachea and lung.
Surely we were meant
for greater volume,
more picaresque mobility –
to ease our expanse
into the coves and inlets of this harbour,
to transact freely
with air frosted with salt,
to trace the distant contours
of promontories with our gazes,
yes, and even leave
our footprints on the sand.
At what point did we forget
that we could be actors
in this daily extravaganza
of space?