bawling in ancient tongues
The journey is perilous my friend, and often hostage
to the immortality of unfinished lives. Our craft built
of our elder’s bones. Ark ribbed. Sailing towards
a retreating horizon in an attempt to touch tomorrow.
A vision of familiar spirits surfaces before my bow
and I imagine a minyan of sea lions blessing my voyage
in Sephardic sealtalk. Their heads covered by skullcaps
of kelp and embroidered in brine.
A cartography of ruby starfish charts the way. My course
beyond sight. Beyond reason and heft. The grey flame
of storm surge rises in the spindrift. Lashed to the mast,
I seek the lilt in the mutiny of song. Listening
for the tune to emerge salt tinged
and bawling in ancient tongues.