We are as passing vessels in the night,
crossing in similar lines through
heavy air on aged skin and weathered sails.
Absently we drift watching for stormy gales,
ignorant of the threat, lurking
within shifting seas - a dance of arms swinging,
unsteady feet stepping back and forth
on sturdy floors, on a wavering world:
in this dance we’ve have been hurled
and stay curled,
for there we lay in parallel shapes.
Looking past the other to the water, I ask,
“Why have you come passing vessel?”
The answer is buried,
like a capsule.
My mourning comes with your passing,
like salt it sticks to our
lips, skin, and hair;
here, where water never completes its purpose.
How is it that you pass on the surface
of the sea
unnoticed and unmoved?
If only you took notice on this course,
your fellow traveler and all you lack;
so passing vessel can you turn your back
on the sinking ship you leave behind?
Will you mourn this passing,
or be so kind
as to carry me from this fateful bind.