This late October rain and mist and fallen 

leaves like the grains of sand on a beach

is prelude to “a damp, drizzly November

in my soul . . . I quietly take to the ship.”

The one that sails upon the land, rough

troubled vortexes of memory

and desire uncharted where no streams

or hills are named, where every check of the 

compass points only into the nowhere

of the unknown and ports dangerous and seductive. 

The threat of la belle sans merci.

The hope of return from what

can give life or take it away.

All I know fades from sight.

I recognize Ahab’s voice.