Take me out upon the waters in a sinking ship.

All the Horizon is a moor of
heavenly fire, empyrean rivers and the
cradle of an unlit moon cupping nothing.

I am dragging, a tender foot by occupation,
trained by the cool night and owls
and stags bending necks and wings in beatification.

This is
a gyration of will, a raging throwing of a body
against the still blue demesne of the Trident, I
slip easily, a rod into hallow ground,

flanked by the barbarians that be
my Arrogance, my Curiosity,
my feet are flags, emblems of resolve before
I’m devoured, wholly,

by the good Sea. Silent. A sort of death.

And I am always only
but a divine dream.

It is only a dream. And so it is that this,
is destined to repeat, with every tide.