Mistakenly misshapen horizons
appear through a curtain of mist,
disquieting like the splinters on deck
which are still the death of me...
We hardly noticed her keel over
so used to otherness our thoughts,
yet though formed on the inside
at our peril we ignored the mast and sails
the waters that cradle this nutshell,
every fish, each atom, all the moonbeams
with their signals, omens and regrets
we did neglect - and now...
I drink to your skull my friend
I loosen my grip
on this mess of beams, slivers and shards.
In this Ocean of chance
I am fast learning my place.
I pray - no, not to live -
but that if I do, I may follow through
where another, not I needs that I be.
And now for a little rest:
I wish my features to be smooth
when the shoreline finds me.