304/ August 13, 2011 - Instructions for the sailor bound east
“dear c. (sea), when i see you i see the the steam bend and the brook clear and wave upon wave upon wave, and the evening glisten, the trickle, the slip, the glimmer and ripple; this is your body of water and i do not know how to travel you (yet)”
And wave upon wave upon wave, our bodies lost to the undercurrent of time. The short stories could not save our lives; the moon was a clock in disguise. Nightly, on his watch, one of us drowned as the other slept, and the mornings were made for resurrection. We drank our coffee gasping, spitting seawater back into the cup, and we pretended to read the paper in absolute silence, eyes tracing over the letters, searching for the headline from last night.
“when permitted, when i know enough about (your) currents and tides to navigate, i will leave (for you) on the first day of courage (but do lend me one of your ships, thigh or ankle, you may pick which of both i am more worthy of), i assure you without a map or constellation or magnetic north, and i will not get lost for there is no land to seek or claim for you are enough.”
And wave upon wave upon wave, we fell on that familiar word. What is it again? Say it, claim it, but clearer this time.
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