A distant oncoming ship
is making a ship
shape
out of the not-so, the never-end of
gelatin gray. They live on it, captains of men.
Climbing up the horn.
Their hearts are hard, hearing the horn
moaning again, never
of land—
but the ship is now
allowing itself,
blind, to
develop, slowly—Look:
I made it. From a curl
of paper. Guided it
behind the glass.
Now I’ve trapped them,
my heart goes out to them.
They’ll die there it’s
my fault. The men.
Kary Wayson’s most recent book of poetry is The Slip (Burnside). She lives in Port Orchard, Washington.