Sun in our sails, our hooker wheels again
and again through the pollack school.
Our radio sends music through the village
you find sad, nine gray homes deserted
and no P.O. We toast our heavy catch
with stout. We lean back under a sky
wide as spread arms, sparkling with scales.
We are transported by our captain’s hand
and breeze, are free and feel it under
those tortured rocks that tower and plunge
deep in green compounded by depth.
We are sailing an ocean and young.
The village nags. It dips and climbs, curves
by every pass we make through pollack
and it dies each time we see it. Where
are they? Were they happy? Did it hurt
to leave? We might grow old here, feed on
light from water and simple events—
the weekly boat with food from Bofin,
waving at hookers, pointing mute directions
on a noisy day. We might fake wisdom:
we have lived here long and understand
the urge to nothing, to a life inside.
Isn’t it better, this wheeling, this sun
in our sails and the radio playing,
again and again through the school
with our greed. Monks get odd,
and without fans, hermits rage in caves.
Better to head for a loud port
where homes are loaded and the mail arrives.