Navigator

I think of you
as playing your guitar
on the floor,
tapping air
with your bare
Irish foot
and tonguing
them notes
like a kettle.
Trill riding
the riddle
of brook bends
the sole
of your hand,
a crook
to rest one's mind in,
davenport
in the den
of lion's ware,
backward stance
'gainst the glare.