The first sharp salt splash on the brow

     is so like a break-up,

leaves synonymous in the mast,

     a scent of honey

in blue cotton sails, your voice's economy

     with breath. Why don't we

head toward that constellation,

     occasional reception dropout standard
welcome even by the crew.

     Years of freedom finally burst.

There is nothing to eat, so seek it

     where you will, seed heads wired

to a hull full of words, soil

     at home in the book.