Write that book, saw that play, bailed that hay, inside the boat there is no upside right. The moth to the light determined the way north, my hand on the rudder is the only sound I hear. Made of wood and stare at starry skys. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in the journal. So the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs.