transoceanic

This is an extract from near the beginning of a 5-page poem that I am working on

specters of islands shimmer in the summer sun,
on the horizon, a fever dream or a mirage?
seventy days at sea and the sailors are thirsty
for they have gazed across the ancient gap that
kept us from each other, felt the billow and bluster
that has, since the birth of this world, kept us
from finally and joyfully fading away together.

but thanks be to the patrons, to the shipwrights,
to these creaking planks, to the ship’s cat, for
look! the islands are real and near and the men
who swab the decks and suck on lemons
and eat hard tack and swing in loose, low
hammocks for hours on hours of cards and prayer
can restock and rest a few days before seventy more.

you are at last within my reach. i lie awake
and wonder if these centuries have worn you
down. are you like those stone slabs cut and set
in early days, worn down by countless soles,
are you like the velvety robes of ancient kings
now threadbare moth meal, are you like that?

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