Blue mountains float on the moisture of morning drizzle.
Wind hoves the boat slant-wise, embraced by water that
doesn't sing the Sirens' Song, "so heuenly swete." I will
not sail home in this empty tomb.

What a planet! All of it home in its tweets and rages,
in its swallow pond of determination. Where are we
heading that is not the artifice of our own creation?