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Your path is in the sea, your path is in the great waters and your footsteps are not known. — from, Psalm 77

Rusty iron ore tramp steamer painted pink

with a great garden of vegetables up


on deck. A tribe of wayfarers, with ink

and love, to sail the steamer, to worship


the waves and all of us in it. Gorgeous

sea-rose, wide mid-ocean. A colony


of cats, of cast-off children, of purpose

other than all this land-locked misery.


Fresh food, fresh water, fresh love; the rhythm

of the voyage slumbers in us. Sea trance


and dream. I want part of this tribal blood

of friends and lovers — in a rust-bottom


pink ship. I want a myth and a romance.

I want a voyage both wild and sacred.