I am a red buoy, anchored and swaying—
fettered to dark waters of dizzying thought.

You are another buoy, untethered and green,
who comes to me in a chimed dream.

There is a third buoy that has no color
I can identify—its invisibility

buoys me up
to face another mineswept day.

Instead of buoy, I should have picked moxie
or menacing or Spanish moss.