Charles Jensen
What wreckage, I forgot. What
courage to sail, forgot. What
ocean? Forgot. Where I started
distant memory, fogged like glass
beneath my breath. What
star I followed long since died.
She was a foolish star—she
won’t be missed by me
or other travelers. What
island, what robe I wore—what
detail’s so essential it cannot be ignored?
The sea throws up its axe-like blades
against the sky. What
does water want, after all?
We push against the boundary—
sky, or skin—in hopes
we slash our blind way through,
like wind.