Compass

My compass rings -
a small musical instrument
quivering in the hand,
its round face reflects moonlight,
its cold silver back presses
my palm ...
and the needle, unerring in its
twitching, discerns the lines of power,
tunes-in to atmospheres unseen -
it is rotating 
towards you.

And my gaze, my face within its face -
a mirror-hue, a cold phantom that
fixes your life to glints of firelight,
shows the glow of olive and brown,
my face in its silver face smiles
the ghost of a smile, looks down
the long, cold line a crow would fly,
the unseen line the white miles run,
the arrowpoint of join 
that graces distance with dominion -
it points my face
towards you.

Magnetic north: the place
to where I come, the blown line 
that gives no latitude 
no trace 
of you.

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