what a boat could say
on a windless day
when it moves by fire
sings an octave higher
(yet this barge though not a barge
feels like a barge it’s a ferry sure)
than i could ever sing.
i could not sing in tune,
on key, in time, at all
in fissures raw
i could not pretend
that the world would bend
in the scope of my panoptic maw
(fierce Apollo’s ambit
forensics-scoured RAM bit
either/or can only say
night or day no pixel-twist of gray)
no sextant angle, albatross’s sway,
not slight nor wider than the course of day,
no magnet calibration can improve
this fading datum’s dielectric groove.
`
if i said yes or no or felt or said
what did not sing or hurt or missed or bled
if error soldered down my kiss in lead
it cruises south today
with its own ticket
on a crowded deck
on a commuter schedule
not on a pirate ship absconding
not with me.
where yet the treasure may lie buried
where your constellation’s coda waits unferried
some other sailor may yet chance to know.
