I thrash any poor schooner
whose plight I encounter
and toss their bounty to the winds;
me, I sail with the words behind me
as wind, I have worlds to conquer
I’m off to anywhere, Malta?
a Burmese mountain top?
the beleaguered streets of
South Chicago, a brothel
in Yokosuka, the sties of Iowa,
the fertile fields of Mendocino,
meet me there, and we can talk