At Sea

31 August 2022

Once in awhile, despite expectations,
you run into someone who knows what they're doing.
Surprising in times like this, but then
also familiar, as if in response to a call
that you heard all along. It won't last,
but for that moment you'll know what it means
to be human. For that moment, all small
uncertainties crystallize into a sculpture of rain,
the most precious made permanent at last.
But time chips at it, wears it away
like a vandal, adolescent, without shame.
You thought maybe it could be like before,
when the stars spelled out stories of heroes
and mankind obeyed and endured, but time
had other plans. And then slowly a new thought
emerged, not quite visible, but certainly there
like a ship in the fog or an iceberg or
some other sculpture. You thought, is this mine
or must I wait for another? It has been
so long since the last one, you thought of
absconding whatever the terms. But this
is not your ship, not your voyage. Your journey
is here, where you are, on this ground.
I had better remind you that ships come
more often now, maybe the old way of choosing
won't do, or at least, won't suffice.
I must know where I stand, on the prow
or on land, but in either case, these legs will do.
So will yours. On the ship, watch the seamen
so proud and hearty, assured of their
artificial discipline. Of course this is mastery,
of course this is justice, of course, of course.
But the course is precisely neglected, already decided,
not open to question. On land there are always
new flowers. Who we are is never so certain.
I like the land better, although I think men
do learn something at sea, to tame chaos,
a Faustian bargain if chaos is in us,
if taken too far, but a call from the sky
to those drowning in worlds without form.