There was once a sailor
who had seen every corner
of the earth covered by the sea
but never stepped on land.
When asked why, he replied
he had only ever heard of it;
caught wind of it on the air
drenched by the strange scent
of beasts less free than he was,
land locked as they were by
folly and a lack of vision
(nor the stomach either)
for movement less perplexing
as consistent to the middle ear–
“What know I of the land,” he says
and you neither of the sky
bound by the ribbon of a
ceaseless heaving and
scattering of stars poured like
the milk he’s never once
enjoyed or the creatures
welcome as the timing between
the seasons they spend one place
only to, like him, end up in just
another.
“What I know is this,” he says,
determined to enchant them:
“that life is never so limitless
as we believe nor finite either;
“and your land can keep its trappings
while my water loves
“another, and that
“other one
“is me.”