Boat (v. 3.0)

When I am old
I shall have a boat that
I put-out in every day.

I will bounce on waves
With little care of where
I go, but only why.

The where will not interest
Me, but THAT shall.

That I should stare deep
Into her depths and weep. That
I should find in her the tears
Of my thousands of lives,
Mingled softly and hardly
Against the other cries of
Anguish made from the bottom
Of my lives.

That a fish would be taken
I would find ok. I would
Eat her nourishment as salt
And ashes and tears and bread.

What else do you eat, when you
Have arrived at the place of
Looking, the place of deeply
Knowing that your pain is not
Just one visit to the barbers’,
But it is a weeping at being
Tired of being a man. Until
You can no longer be satisfied
With knowing and must instead
Stare into the blue, drag out her
Morsel, and get lost in the cycle
Of the boatman.

The paint that I have scraped off,
And the edges I have sanded smoothe
Are ready now for paint. And, when she dries,
I will push this boat back out – away from
Shore, and seal the coldness of life
Against the salty ocean blue.