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.