Scrimshander ink etched into what’s left of me may tell some story—but not mine.
In the plunge I took to shed the fret and fug of fifty years did my tongue,
nested now in long and serrated jaw, cease to say what a heart might wish.
So muted, I chased solitude to the trench, to the cool, to the pitch.
Roomfuls and invisible, I am echoes. I am vanished.
I may rise into a berg-pocked sea and take in the lush air—brine, the fresh, and balsam—
memories of shore.
Are you close?
I delight to sing through leagues to you — clicking, pitched and benthic tones to ping the rocks
that ring your merry island.
Fremitus of sand to tremble footsteps in the surf.