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.