Plastering leaks
with pine tar and rags
in between shifting the sails—
good thing everything I see is
liquid, outside, inside, and inside me
including the neuro-cartographic fluencies—
even the boat
especially the boat all
fluidics in motion
good thing, otherwise I might drown.
Though I do not know
if I know you, your waters
flow into mine, no resistance.
Even though the high sun
tries to swallow
everything in light
shadows were already nowhere
this far from the shore
and clouds are ragged memory.
Shall we feast on the waves you and I and?
Shall we feast on the silence when silence ensues?
It’s the brand new nature of things.
No confession. No looking glass. No return.
We could echo
off of the horizon had it not become
once again an ancient, chiseled myth.
