If a Lighthouse

No, not like a volcano. Not like waves.
Like a light bulb whose light is
constant; like a throbbing, or
a workhorse. Da-dum-da-dum.
That's how it goes, my heart.
If a lighthouse, then not
the tower but the light that shifts,
not spreading as, in moving,
it splays the sea, like a gift.
Like hands, it give guidance to
any ship. If, say, my body is such,
then my heart is its guidance:
an anchor to which, all this time,
I have kept returning.