this is not my fault, I swear. I did not see
that the moon had swung so high, that
the anchor was misdirectioned--it never
hit the seafloor.
(but it will make a good chandelier
provided it doesn't rust.)
I have told you: silver is antiseptic; cobwebs are not.
it would be best if your wounds were ignored. but if you wish,
the mast is rotting and grandpa's sails are secure
and safe; will they do for bandages?
I might have some string hidden
under the planks. but salt water will sting
at your flesh. even so, darling, if you would
hasten to the deck and grab a bucket?
(I am sorry, but we cannot drink salt water, please understand.)
at night, the fog will frighten me, as it will frighten you--I know;
but the bilge is warm. please know
I am here for you.
and in the morning, we will
retire to the starboard: swallow dirt, wash remains
into the current. it is hard
for me to see the helm--green and mouldy
with fissures carving down its shipwrecked spine--sunk
and I will use a string
of complaints to hang all the clouds to dry.
but if I were to climb the crow's nest:
the wharf is a hand's breadth away.
'the wharf is an entire sea away.'