Wrote 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 staring at starry skies. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in the journal. So the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts with anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs. Dogs will not bark at the sea if they are not there. Horses will not bay at the moon. The horse is the boat and boat is at sea. And I will look bow-ward, despite the direction we are headed. Underground is good, underwater is a life worth living. Surface tension, and the book will sink right to the bottom. Eye on the time, with a wheel of lime. The wheel goes round and round.
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