Crippled passions, you
up with all the start of a sea,
all many untold thousands
of leagues, all squared and
winding nautical miles–
born of creeping angers far
beneath, a quiet lapping at the
starboard side of galleys
and organs churning deep below.
you have your dozen vessels,
crass triremes that sail port to port,
that in the light and cloudless days
row on to conquer cities and the gold
that gives them rise.
but nothing can, nor wants, the
enigmatic mass of ocean dark
where feeble oars tread speechless
and starkly ply the corpulent black sea.
skippers, ept marines and knowing,
on their knees they beg the sundry sea
to dress itself with shores.
ah! no one trusts the ocean, loves the ocean,
the wide and reverend mistress
to the land;
and I, brim to brim with cumbersome
tide, should have better known
its sailors to be jetsamed politicians
than seekers of the sea.