To cast away your turbulence:
enclose in one cast-iron chest
and bury deep on a deserted island.
Never to be found,
never to be heard from again,
thoughts run aground,
as your bow uncertainly touches down?
Uncharacteristic of the moontide,
shallow waters now,
Water rushes up the floorboards,
valves strictly leaking.
You dove into the deep
but now come up crawling,
Gulping mouthfuls of sand.
You try to push,
wish to sink down steadfastly,
but land comes up under your feet.
A new addition to the mental cartography.
The island, you see, is no longer in the distance,
but right there at the end of your telescope.
What then can you do but pick up anchor
(the one that had dropped but never stuck
and chose to drift languidly in the wake),
throw out the carefully charted course
(that was meant to skirt and smart
but declare disorientation it did not!)
and, in directionless pursuit,
set sail and head on.
The weather is changeable,
and the captain’s mast far from resolute,
be it writhe with serious, stormy substance,
or brineful of fizzy, foamy nothings –
“aye, never mind how the water be,”
he said –
with the smirk of a sailor,
and a face turned up to adventure –
“…there is certainly a discovery
waiting to be made
on the other side
of the blue