My rushing sigh

Flows in and out

Like the ocean surf

That writes in the dark

On reams of slimy kelp

With the ancient ink

Of primeval octopi.

 

It’s as if the storming,

Obsidian face of waves

Is a mirror for my own

Inner workings and words

That I wish to speak

But never do for fear

Of being misunderstood.

 

The gray-gold skies

Stare down and sharpen

The rising furrows, wrinkles

Of aged waters deceiving

My gaze from looking inward,

From watching and waiting

For the quiet constellations,

 

The stars, whose purpose

Guides me down the ways

Of all the shattering billows

Till perhaps I start to see again

Through the mist and spray of

Other ships plunging forth,

Following their lines of longitude.

 

No single map will demonstrate

Where they’ll weigh their anchors

And where I’ll chart my course—

But I cannot doubt as I breathe,

Watching the clouds that dance

Above; my desire to voyage brings me

Here—and points beyond the world’s end.

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