the soul from its vessel,
failing to slake
the thirst or the ocean.
billowing under Gemini and Scorpio, mute
oarsmen -- doubloons
nailed to the mast
retain it, retain. What we learn
from literature will not avail us.
Music, ocean, ear, all
swell the tides of our bones,
down into the undertow,
bearing us onward, outwards,
far from the place we stand in.
Our island with its' charmed forest.
Our lagoons, each with their Circe.
Her perilous enchantment. This habitation
entered on all our maps --
the place, the forest, the guardians
of that path, this dank lair, the gate of shadows,
and all that which, revealed, enmeshes and presents
that grail which we would drink from,
dead or elsewhere. This
vision we are almost certain of.
It does not avail us.
Only the moon prevails,
solely la lune seule
because of the light in the forest
because we are the light, unknowing,
and the leaves which it illumines, knowing.
The words of which
The sound of which
--it could be breakers --
removes us, removes