|Photo credit: D Ramey Logan|
with you in a 45-foot sloop.
It's 21 days before we sight other
humans on a ship that passes at dusk.
Four hours on watch and four hours off,
you and I share the helm but not the berth.
When you sleep I count the floating containers
shrugged off and left to bob like geometric icebergs,
a Pacific conundrum.
Hit one and we're finished.
My eyes are filled with horizon
and the ghosts of those phantom
crates as you rock in the arms of your mother
when a light
surfaces, advancing upon us.
Panicked, I rouse you, certain it is
some locomotive cruiser, bound to chop
our hull clean through, its light too bright to see us.
you join me
at the helm, gaze
toward our fate silently
and surely underway. You
grin like a cult leader.
Not to worry,
it seems we have
set a bearing toward Jupiter.
to the star-lit folds
of your berth as I alone
await the brazen approach
of the planet and all its moons.