I was thrown from a boat like a prophet,
washed ashore on an Island of Baalbek-sized structures.
In the Atlantic, under the ‘i’ and ‘c’,
thirty-three north, thirty-three west, degrees.

Ancient mariners must have missed it,
concentric waterways and land bridges, cut by a channel to the sea.
Occasional women gathering and cutting cane,
dirges being sung by a certain, Sarah.

Farther up around the outer ring,
a Bay horse, trapped in a tidal pit.
Just enough seaweed at high tide,
eyes white from living in the dark.

A strange place,
I find myself the only man,
another Adams or Crusoe.
I will free the Bay tomorrow, and head inland.