The faces, the indecent rocking of the ship between destinations,
the trail of yellow foam like misery on the water, the faces in passivity
under the sails, the crowd of fortune, the quiet rhythm, sleep that never
comes, the nearing port, the daunting, menacing knowledge of nothing.
The games that they play, heartless and repetitive, on the decks,
cards flying out into the waves at times, the blood like ice in their veins,
the fish in dark ascending movements underneath their feet, unnoticed,
their weightlessness passing, their scales flashing in the darkness.
The faces are there and will be again, they speak of what cannot be changed
and longs to be so, the huge ship swaying like a ghost, filled with voices,
one, then two, then three, all in one sound, swaying, beautiful thing
in the hands of the sea, slowly creating, slowly erasing the created shape
in the next ample movement of disarray, in the next voice heard and the
next being silenced.





