Drifting Slowly East and Filling
The swells seem to deepen. You’re too tired to be sick.
Listen to the piston through your mother’s thigh. Stars
have no beginning at two-three-four-three, and there’s
no end to a diesel’s drone. The man at the helm
is no exception. He’s just part of the dark steering you home.
The ferryman told him to watch for Orion. If not,
Taurus would do. You, my dear, must watch for me.
A speck on the tide line is moving.