Sail forth—steer for the deep waters only,
Reckless o soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,
For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,
And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all . . .
Last chances grown dim,
and lust cringed, for I my soul,
had no conquest.
To brown-clear cider
in blustery kegs,
the pomander’s simmer
and baby blue eggs.
Be of the light
for, always, sail
and twice, move.
The tempting ideals,
the chocolate in its wrapper,
and I in my dressing gown.
Moments from affliction’s source
and first, the shedding of the breath,
O thirst now satisfied.
And in its seasons turn
the leaves to crimson
and the dawn to sage.
Circling, in an arc,
oh pensive souls:
repeating only the grafted gray-blue,
as seagulls do, cry.
Riveting the far-away lands
with verse and poets unbeknownst.
Shall we find our passage, find our doom?
Shall we find India, at starboard?