I have thumped upon thine chest
but the treasure within long left it
you carried Aztec gold
and a monkey
you carried mildewy maps
and your mother’s castoff blankets
you remain true
to form but empty
let’s let down a lead plumb line
to scrape up bits off your bottom
see how far down you go,
sailor, stowing songs yard arm under
listen to your fathoms
find your level of pollution
your old ships’ ribs rotting
in dangerous harbors
heart of city dredged
of silt for barges to sound out passage
it should have alarmed me
your bell toll tormented then tabled
swim all the narrow channels
at one thousand eighty-seven feet per second
swim all the channels that separate
fling out your breast bone as you dive
sing out your peculiar sounding voice
your only voice your voice belonging to only you
*Photo courtesy Adam Sowers.