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.