I decided to leave, & I needed a good boat—one with a great big room for me to sleep in.
I wanted it to be a blue one. I wanted to conquer the language of the sea
with its color & my thereness, & it would be almost blasphemy, the way it cut &
tacked & haunted the storms in their work. To put it simply, it should mostly sail.
I wanted to go that way & no other way seemed right. I would be like a mother to it,
leading it on into adulthood, letting it arrive there of its own accord, which is wonderfully
profitless & both common & uncommon like a poem in its own watery sphere,
where nothing's for sure, neither the beginning, nor the end, though the child goes
on & on, & the mother still listens, sometimes smiling, sometimes her mind is elsewhere,
maybe some faded image of the father carrying a green bag full of souvenirs from
somewhere he had been for a very long time. My boat would contain that mother, that
father, & I would call the boat moonlight & on it I would write a book, proving what I
prove is nothing, though it will never be finished, written in a time that does not really exist—
invented like me, where no people, nor wind, nor sky, before winter returned, & soft rains are.