A ship
crosses the ocean,
in the darkness:
darkness, black & endless
no moon,
no stars,
just clouds -- thick & low
clouds that can't be seen
The ship has lights,
but those lights know
an event horizon
Lights sometime
glint against the waves,
those roiling & undulating
waves,
and the lights bounce off
the ship's hull
But no one can see them,
because if anyone could see them,
the seers would be seen--
unless theirs is a ghost ship,
piloted by literal ghosts,
or some other agent of observation
Maybe there is fog --
not enveloping the ship,
(such mist would be felt
on the skin of those on deck)
but, rather, a fog between
where the ship is,
and where is should be
For it is surely off course,
listlessly drifting,
all hope arrayed against edges:
edges of ice
&
edges of the world
Not that the world is flat,
but, perhaps, it's not fully sculpted:
maybe nothing lies outside
the range of the seen:
outside the bounds of experience
It sounds crazy,
but all kinds of crazy
form in a mind
submerged in darkness
There was an old lady from Kanyakumari
who one day tripped on the hem of her sari.
She fell into the sea,
but said, "Please leave me be.
I've long wished to know the world beyond Kanyakumari."
The gate faced the sea.
It seemed like
a strange place
for a gate.
The sea spray
of crashing waves
flew up to douse
those who passed through.
Which way was in?
Which way was out?
And then I accepted
that "in" & "out"
were meaningless constructs,
and that it was a portal
between infinities.
On the shore
of angry seas
I hear the crash
of foamy waves,
but miss the
crisp sudsy sizzle
that one hears
on a sunny summer day.
That nuanced note
is lost to the Churn
Tiger Riding for Beginners 