We said very little. The wind was from the southwest and way-finding was in the manner of reflection—the setting sun sparkling in your eyes, how it made the glitters on the waves. The purple and pink tones in the sky were a background for my life for cellos and violas to try their fluid, crimson polyphony. Notes repeated. Mistakes repeated. Love and days repeated. For a moment I closed my eyes to capture the fields of August as they blazed in the light—your hair waving in the wind that moves across the deepest waters.
You taught me how to sail: to trim the sheets, hold the tiller. A rope is a line, which had been only words before. When to fall off and when to pinch dangerously close—close enough to topple, to capsize and then be lost into the cold and darkness.
On land we know the Laestrygonians, at sea Leviathan will chew off our pretty legs. Everything is eaten, dissolved into the salt and accidents of stars that make us one.
In the course of this voyage across the water, across my life and sound, I dream my body will wash upon Scheria and be tended by your curious, eager hands. And later, a bowl of chowder, a counterpane and the embrace of your arms—gifts that can kill without remorse or hesitation. Your arms are tattooed like mine
In the summer I sail across the Riddle, dead reckoning from birth.
This moment is what I want: the paradox of being alone with you, whether you are here or not.