Like a child of the winds,
borne on the water;
like a child of the waters,
borne on the wind.
I think I understand those t-shirts, now,
“I’d rather be sailing.”

I’ve never known how
to run with the wind,
but my buddy here does,
and he can show me:
such a silent swiftness, with the rhythm of the luff of the jib
like an obbligato.

It’s almost as if
we’d never sinned;
it’s almost as if
the waters were for us.
This is a craft so far from my sullen art,
and I’d rather be sailing.

When we’re making to windward
(I know more about that),
my buddy knows exactly
how to come about:
left sheet rope, right sheet rope, tiller over, duck as a boom swings,
and it’s over, it’s easy.

If the wind’s too much,
take your hand off the tiller
and the boat will save you:
it turns to the water
and it turns to the wind, and they stop it. Boats know that,
they’re born of the waters.

This is why you have friends:
they teach you things.
I know about stupidity
and solitude and doubt,
and the long night’s labour bespeaking the obvious.
He knows about sailing.

I’m buying a boat.
I’ll call it Euterpe.
I’ll print that in Greek,
so no one will know.
I’ll steer my muse out onto open waters,
and we’ll go sailing.