already we are boldly launched upon the deep,
glared at by clotted elliptical crags plotted onto maps
by dolphin sonar.
steep walls slow our fleet-feet, no bag of winds to
blow out of our lithe bagpipes. Have Travel!
bleats the ghost of a kingfisher felled in
a forever war; its history hidden in a conch.
two bouldered whales play Scylla and Charybdis;
skim stones on the elastic sea – threatening peace –
both mutually raising their eyebrows at passing ships
slipped in from foreign ports.
and on these ships – as I am – turbulence infests
the lungs (the life-giver)
choking out surf.
[toasting to you] /a prost! on dead ears/
I stay below deck, writing, lighting candles in portholes,
commuting each night with the wraith-kingfisher
it occurs to me that we could all be dead
/ghosts at the feast/
contained within 35mm reels
drowning in dust.