Praise to the sea,
moon tugged blood of the earth,
mirror of wind & solitude;
praise be your highest wave
sprinkled white with salty spray.
Bringer of gifts, out of us you raise
the portcullis of migrant surf;
warm southern winds meeting
the high draft of icy northern gales.
They meet us with the stench
of rotted rafts, of dark bodies washed
pale as ghosts, turning inward
to the everlasting universe of the Id,
conversing with the divine spark
that flickers still until warmth is driven
away & though the boom sways
& the keel slaps the troubled skiff,
your black waters give no evidence
that the moon hears our summons,
for Olokun to do his deed,
jerk the reins of this nightmare
into more calmer archipelagos.
You bring us, full as drowned ships
to stranger shores, swaying as if drunk,
entangled in the roots of siren songs.
It's been a while. Just couldn't get away.