The Ship

The ship awakens to the sea.
The floating of the season she
grows willing to express,
for metaphors express the scarcity,
not the excess.

The sea is but another, and a greater,
metaphor. Predominant uncertainty.
There is nothing but the air,
to host all that is not the sea.
The fishes, and the birds.
And, most important, the ship.

Mediator for some,
means of interpretation for others,
interpreter for all,
the unnecessary.
Once a statement
is born, an understatement
is born. The ship afloat,
and above, still part of
an affluence that needs restraint,
the horse and rider figure,
they trigger
chaos to a mould.

You fade into obscurity,
the sails,
the hulk,
the masts, the lot
of every statement flown into form.
Relentless images merge, one into another,
only
to shrink, and go.
What is left? The sea.
The sleep.
The point in space and time
that neither space nor time
can hold.
Articulate me.
I am articulation, and accidence.
Very much the ship
and sea together, on condition
that no one speaks, or sighs,
or breathes,
or otherwise
disturbs the suffixes.
There's such a gentle leap
from one point to the other
that leaves abstraction poor.

The ship.


20 августа 2017 г.