The darkness visible but by water
clots into continents, waits.
A headstrong moon speaks itself
into the greening deep, divides the skiff
from what fleets and flows.

 

The boat leaves creases, imprecise images—
portraits the water is obligated to render.
This sky’s inhalation settles
damp on the rigging. There is Peter,
the rock, indecision, devotion.
How we arrive in port
more minor than imagined.

 

What is the world if not these waves,
this opacity greeting our ends?
I understand The darkness around us
is deep one means as more than metaphor.
A spume is one such miracle. The Christ
indiscernible from the seaspray and mist about him.
He is singing the oldest man’s sea song
distant from the darkened glade.