Le Séducteur

Doesn’t that shining line Of ocean, broken Suggest a ship at sea, Or something? Ah, if to be “At sea” is to be lost, Left out, or just un- Certain of the meaning, Someone else chimes in. Nevermind, I’m sure it’s Nothing, someone else insists Of this impossible vessel — Crafted of affect and lack Of glasses, the sail a conceit Of low clouds, the bow A row of breakers, sun Glinting off the port- Hole (imagined) of the cabin Below whose bed is also, As we say, the sea- Bed or floor(as if it were A dwelling down there, Where the restless sleepers Are scattered bone). A ship At sea is only a figure Of speech somebody else Claims: a quick shape — Suggested by the passage Of a cloud and the tug Of  the current; a thin dream Already almost forgotten ... If you can forget the cargo, Another adds, which was Human: though that fact Was somehow less visible To the traders than the trade Routes traced out across The dissolving paper Map, under a spill of silver Coins poured out. Life Is brief, one might sigh At this point: a matter Of water in water Moving, each of us Carefully bearing The bags we packed With cherished flotsam And jetsam, clutching A one-way ticket Printed on a spume Of wind-blown white ... A pretty image, used To excuse too much: As if the lives enslaved Were worthless as this Sudden welling up Of what is mostly self- Pity (salt at my lips, You say, my vision Swimming). Nothing. It’s nothing but ... It’s nothing. To be At sea is also to be, As we say, astray or In the dark, hoping For terra firma, and To be enlightened, Soon, as to just what Was meant by that sad Laugh and last remark.