Exit

When you get to the edge of the continent
you expect to see the sea, but the past
pulls you back in a blindfold as if saving
the vision of limpid green waters for later,
screening the firing squad of the waves
from your ice cool stare, your serenity.

Every exit is like this, however bold it seems
at first; there comes a point when the edge
just cannot be faced, the parachute strap blows
back over your face, just half of Magritte's kiss
is more than enough to tell you that the future
is an ocean - invisible, impossibly unknown.