Oh these blind trajectories,
these pure set conditions,
initial, merry, just so wandered -
a shell thus thrown, a plunged
albatross beak, a sheared
stab of ice, a moon’s pull
and a breath elastic -

All these and a calculus,
as crest to valley lumbers
in its way - sine to sine -
chopped though ever free
and unlapped after.

Yes, that is how to build a rogue,
how to find our love - our love
stacked crest to crest -
to lurch up, snag a gilded gannet,
round about a hunk of sun
and fist on some stiff unwary hull -
cast our cargos upon the sea.