keeps a merchant ship alive,
the sailors all gone to shore?
Rats? The unlucky in the brig?
Seagulls? Old seafaring fables?
The few left to stand watch?
Rhymthic lapping of seawater?
Wind clawing away at the flags?
The ship's own love of lighthouses?
Or just all that potential, Honolulu
to Siam, San Diego to Taiwan?
How we could leave this life so
quickly if it allowed us onboard,
where we'd sneak off, down below,
down into the dark, as stowaways.
The vast all of somewhere else?
How it's sure to sail in our daydream or
sleep, and we may ask what it means,
but we'll never know, don't really care.
So much is there and not there,
the thing here at dock,
the thing gone to sea, and
when we describe it to friends,
we leave most everything out,
our failure with things that float.
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