I recall one dream I had
(In dream, of course, I mean poem)
In which by baptism a friend died.
Such things are not so far off.
Perhaps my declarations are prophecies and prayers
To a sky full of hopeful stars,
Spoken from the cabin of my ocean vessel
Which tosses and turns like I did in my bed last night,
My deepest taste of hate beating behind my ear
An iambic pentameter
(For that is the only one I recall from sixth grade).
I don’t remember patterns, except in abstraction.
As the waves beat upon the sand, so my words.
Somehow incoherent, violent motions create a sound
I finally find to have rhythm.
After cursing for at least an hour
I found stillness in sleep.
And from the river, the fisherman dragged a dying man.
Between broken ribs and bleeding wounds
He brought him back to life, and so
They called him healer.
And so the sailor wrote a poem.