i tried

and i am rested on
a canal bed
looking up through the murky depths reversed
to a sky rebounding you
as if the course of the waterway
was deviated to make space
for all the words
that had been written and said along its banks
and what of the miles that rest
from here to that other hemisphere?

distances built with tracks, to go far, to accept
that, maybe, this voyage would be our last
happily ended after
i had wrestled from the before. i couldn't overcome
the grassroots of the equator.
an imaginary line couldn't free you, how could i.

for b.j.