Taking Passage
July 25 2008


I have taken passage
on a slow freighter,
slipping-out to sea;
making steam
in the chilly glow of dawn.

Charred stacks pump-out thick black smoke,
burning its load
of heavy oil.
The long hull, streaked with rust,
ploughing through choppy water
pushing into waves,
looks brittle enough to break
— the ocean shrugging its shoulders
in a sudden blow.

The crew speak Tagalog, or Creole
and avoid me.
The officers are polite, but distant;
laughing
at inside jokes,
raising too many toasts
to the voyage,
to home.

I spend days looking out to sea,
— the cold green water
hypnotic,
the air, sharp with brine.
There are birds
which I know have been aloft for a thousand miles,
barely flexing their wings.
At night, a rare ship goes by;
a dot of light on the horizon
teetering over its edge.
And down the side
the phosphorescent glow
of a living ocean,
churning-up in our wake.

This passage seems out of time;
the land extinguished,
a mile of water
underneath my feet.
And out of place;
the southern constellations
unknown, unnamed.
This is both journey
and destination,
standing on the upper-deck, all alone.
Where I long ago lost count
— how many days out;
how many to go.