Cast off from the dock of reality
into the sea of abandon.
Past the vast alluvial pains of oncore,
no anchor.
"Anchor, anchor!" I scream.
Pitch and roll.
Hee, hee, and yaw.
Fine loud slaps of the wind.
Rudder askew.
A wake. Awake. A wake.
Seaweek slick.
Vast kelpbeds slither across the ceiling.
Surrounded, tugged, drowning
then back to the surface.
Hee and yaw.
It has been many years
since I have been to sea,
and still I dream of heading out to feel
the great saline solution.
© Montana Blue
