I knelt on the flight deck, salt spray pelleting
my forehead. I fell into several worlds with the blow,
each an iron crib of questions patrolled by waltzing
wig-wearing marionettes. When I questioned them
they pointed toward the sun, said ligature. One crib
conducted an orchestra of squids playing Wagner
on intricate machines while ascending and descending
a steep set of chrome-coated stairs. Another was six
exact replicas of a city block: in each of them, sketches.
I dropped through many more, all indirect, all symbols
for the unconscious splints I knew the sea had sent.
That evening, while scrubbing the bilge with proof
and political leanings, I came to an unmolested thought:
I am the smallest particle, and I can move anywhere.
All rights reserved to Christopher Lee Miles.