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.
Peter Minter was a founding editor of Cordite and former poetry editor of Meanjin.