WEST

the sails snapped with each small gust
as we tacked Lady in hopes
of finding the wind
we kept to our dead reckoning by day
in the night we searched
for the distant stars--
those brothers of the sun,
that push him aside
replacing his glory
with dim semblance--
their warmth always out of reach

the brothers,
indignant that their pale blue light
gives the captain use
for his rusty sextant,
hide themselves behind
purple clouds
flashing with unheard lightning
those dark billows following
every night since we crossed the horn
since we lost the coast to the thin line
that connects sea and sky

the captain often stands amidships
his cigar chewed to a nub
his hat drenched in salt and sweat
yelling something at one of us or another
before turning his back
to make the climb to the helm
me at the boom,
and Squeaky Pete going aloft
Young Davy, his hands blistering on the halyard

the wind, like the very breath of God
it evades us day and night
always teasing the sails
before turning away
spinning above our heads
like fingers drawing in the sand

provisions are low
the crew plays it calm
but we see if in the captain's eye
inevitability--
his dearest friend