North

My skeleton a mast,
and skin a sort of sail;

desire blows a wind;
I find my body here–

the long calm at 47 years,
slumped on a weathered deck

from thirst and hunger. Yet
I sense a breeze, as hope

brushes by my cheek, fails
to fill the empty sheets,

and end this life adrift.
The hell with this!

It’s only up to me,
to make my own fine wake,

and discover in the race
of night skies, omens

written on the waves,
a course due north,

to final islands, green,
before the Arctic ends.

Fly the skull and bones!
Let stars crowd round!

Dolphins, rhyme the bow!
We sail on will alone.