One certain facet
of this island hopping
is the slipstreamy tail
of each ferry
while we lick salt
from our lips,
alter our speech
to receive brine
on our tongues,
note that when a boat
fractures water
there’s a place
where sea is not blue.
Only if we hold ourselves
still in the swell
and spray
of each journey
can we know
if language lies to us,
if candour is buried
on the ocean floor,
if the bony skulls
of whales and dolphins
conceal certainties,
if truth is written
and rewritten
on each tide.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.