Plunge now, tighten the roots that reach from sky to the bound seafloor, reel
in the new catch fresh from waves that
break on the side of our white-stilled canoe. Gliding through the stars,
we call them stars, as they mirror the points
of light above. Below? Are they the shafted bits of arrow aimed, perfect for the center?
How could we tell the change from ripple to north-blown breeze, how could we
tell one or the other to cease? Condemn the snatchers who chase
the stardust on an icy current, intent on purging them from the sea,
thrusting them in the approximate direction of the eye of the hurricane. Be silent now,
break the water line ever gently, glide through the night. Already the roar
and spurn of the engine putters to a faraway whimper, keening with the tide.
Call out your arms to the drifting, lost, illuminating flickering orbs and draining pallor
from the bordering sky. Release, release, send them to the surface, newly alight
and glowing with the touch of your hands and a soft goodbye.