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.