The mast tied upon my back,
I trust the wind much more than my hungry ear
tilted to a far horizon
to devour the siren’s call.
And lo, stirs the primordial tone
that beckons from the slap of waves
the scent of salt
each clack of mass on mass
hums with such sweetness
as makes a strong man happy slave to sugar.
Horror, my body pulls to the
gravity of the jeweled abyss
spread wide as starry night.
The sirens, they say, are passed
yet I beg to hang upon the mast
for I see no refuge from the song
that puts muscle to helm and drives ships on.