on an airy starboard side, the widows are weeping for something over which they used to feel power and ownership

the mast is high and its hardness bears no relation to the soft weakness of the passengers, sparking for themselves and knowing nothing deeply

water drips to decay wood, taking its pleasure in its ability to rot, destroy, weaken further

sails with holes in them, patched then unpatched then repatched, and sails unpatched at all, searching for a balance that cannot be found

a heat that treats those nearby to a brief but sweet cloying sort of satisfaction, the cold of the waters forgotten for a time, the pressing of one another to one another

ones whose minds are elsewhere, failing to see what is in front of them, lost in a different sea, the sea of ruminations long gone and never foretold, always told after

and refuse falls over the side of port