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.