Poem about..well, it's no fun if I say what it is about, right? |
the sails snapped with each small gust as we tacked Lady in hopes of finding the wind we kept to our dead reckoning by day in the night we searched for the distant stars-- those brothers of the sun, that push him aside replacing his glory with dim semblance-- their warmth always out of reach the brothers, indignant that their pale blue light gives the captain use for his rusty sextant, hide themselves behind purple clouds flashing with unheard lightning those dark billows following every night since we crossed the horn since we lost the coast to the thin line that connects sea and sky the captain often stands amidships his cigar chewed to a nub his hat drenched in salt and sweat yelling something at one of us or another before turning his back to make the climb to the helm me at the boom, and Squeaky Pete going aloft Young Davy, his hands blistering on the halyard the wind, like the very breath of God it evades us day and night always teasing the sails before turning away spinning above our heads like fingers drawing in the sand provisions are low the crew plays it calm but we see if in the captain's eye inevitability-- his dearest friend |