[1] On what sea does my makeshift Skiff of a heart sail, land locked?

The churn of water, the spume of breath, No chart to navigate this invisible time, A jerry can of words at one end, half full, To fish for meaning, and a playful gull Wheeling around in spirals, a sky bolted Weather wave pointing to a breathing shore.

And what possibilities at landfall? A room, Some vine shade, a plate of flowers, throats Humming through the evening, and under a chintz Quilt your body of moonstone to sleep against.

[2] But this terror too, which swims alongside with its Shark blade-fin, the molar scars that the body hefts With trembling and salty curses, through the grunt Work of heaving water from the gunwales overboard; All this to keep this stick tub afloat till the port of call.

I think I need more grace that I thought, to keep This skyward gaze at what must be love's gull.