“Have you any news of my boy Jack?”
Rudyard Kipling
On hearing the news who can ask, with grit, for dignity?
Oh but the wrest and bulge in such bellows as lungs
the dependence on the sail on the wrap
the tight right roll and knot when such as this
wind
will puncture any all full from mast
to deck.
Best, but how to know when (but when
is
never
on
watch)
we’re captain of such wind in our tip and roll,
the rope wound round and through what cousins
it
and governs full length across the beam, like
some medieval
liturgical Good Friday, what wind and how, what
shoals
what open water, what scraped keel, the feel
(but the tongue
a
muscled
compass
what,
dear
and
who)
Oh, furnace or doldrum, to turn my way in each
when what they speak, what they speak dismantles
my ever every ease.
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