Writing on a Pool of Water

I write about the real itself.
To take the idea; reinvent it
through some fanciful tactic
is pretty, nice and pleasing.

They were all in it for truth
anyhow, or at least, proclaiming
the absence in a pool of water
for an instant, dry;

'glimpses' they'd say.
Glimpses. It’s true. Glimpses
shocking, personal, difficult;
an instant.

Sunray's, wobbly tables
or thirsty drinkers, these
things surrounded, truth itself.
There is too much crossover

from what is a physical body
and a wandering mind that I feel
at once this must
encompass two things—

never taken from physicality
as the poet of modern day's did:
the mind must be a helmsman
of the most uncertain ship,

all the cracks and creaks,
inherited wound. Then when I
picture this: winds, all directions,
nature's fury above my head,

upon imagined ocean, I wonder
whose wind, whose current,
and why so many rocky shores.