On a boat that is not a boat, we travel.
From the bow of its rattling bones,
the evening star, that great shining oak
in the land of sky, points to untouched shores.
Heavy webs of star, a mournful trap
of darker holes, hinges man's thoughts
to universe like tiny specks of fly.
It is the sea we hear when we are dying
or its winded breath, the physical divinity
of blueness, the stretching tendons
of fluttering wings whose feathers rise
like thunderheads in swirling weaves.
The gulls sweep down,
not from loneliness, but greed
to touch the thing that we desire most-
such fearsome beauty.