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There in the branching seas,
in warm waters harmful and northern,
the wind took me westward
skirting a desolate land.
IV
Now the sea is a level
and heartless country,
boiling with unsteady fires:
The salt air smothers
the coastal lights,
but the mast, the shipped oars,
ignite with the corposant,
and all through the water
a green incandescence,
and often at night
the coastline is dark, obscured
by the luminous reef
by the Phoenix of Habbakuk,
low in the canceling west,
and the wind and the water
are borrowed and inward as light.
And on those same nights,
on the face of the waters,
unexplainable darkness
embarks from the starboard to port
like a dream beneath memory
as though from the ocean
a new land is rising, proclaimed
by the distant and alien
calls of the whales.
The compass needle
flutters and falls
into vertiginous waters,
and waking to sunlight
fractured on spindrift,
the impervious jade
of the ocean below you,
you dismiss the night, you turn it away,
which is why this song
returns to you quietly
at full noon, when the assembled sea
is changing past thought and remembrance
above the eternal currents
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