The sun punched a hole in my sleep,
boxing me into the day. I hunched
a cigarette, and let the smoke bleed
into the beams.
It whipped me along in its wake,
unfurled me. There was broken glass
in the pane of your face, and salt
under the bedspread.
We made for the islands. On deck,
the smooth juice of our captorsí mouths
smothered our tongues. Their words
On the fourteenth day, I ran blazing
over the side and under the bowsprit:
I felt the welter of waves. The prow
was polished, violent.
The moon struck the sea like a fist,
busting the shadow. I slipped
into sleep, holding my torn charts
like old photographs.