I’m running low on ink, pen,
stationary, bottles and cork,
the Milky Way moving above me
like a vast blue sea, tides
and currents sweeping away
my inquiries never to return.
Sitting on a rough beach
I seldom pace anymore,
but often soil my knees with prayer,
if the shell of sky and ocean
somehow forms the answer –
me without ears to hear, held up too small
and distant against the eternal,
not a climbing path anywhere
among the flying stars and heaving waves,
these pitched bottles merely
a poor substitute for drowning.
O child of God, facing sea and skyward
distracts you from your inherent solitude.