Like an undressed Torah, the sea
scrolls back layers.
                                  Nothing is kept
secret. We unfurl
the past with every intention
of finding
                  unity in fragments
as variable as sails. Where wind
blowing from six countries
                                                gathers
in a single basin,
                                   the water
is so weighted it’s like a deadfall trap,
a churning
                    green chamber.

Floating in the sea with you
left no impression,
                                   nor should it have,
only the aftertaste of salt
and a correlation: we are lighter
than its archives.