The groove

The grooves of gravity ground me to reality.
But I routinely fly into landscapes like a bird
with the plumage of my thoughts, adorning 
even the dullest of the stretches through a 
window that I carry in my pocket all the time.
Even at rest I would row my bed into a sea 
filled with stories of the masters above. 
They lend me their oars from time to time.
Sometimes I snatch a line from a storm 
starting at the center of a story, dancing
its way out to the edge of my eye. 
I take shelter in it from the daily cares. 
I row into sleep and often stop to be 
carried upon the back of strange waters. 
I see a distant light house all the time.
A ray of poetry and I think, 
I could sink in that direction 
and it should not matter.