the Mayflower (coming to America)

Tossed hope in salt waves: endless blue day, and ominous refractions of sight dipping into night; we are small and locked inside the wood skeleton surrounding us and filled with wine musk – dark, wet, and tossing; bodies (we) sleep, wake, and pray; and in-between prayer our salt tears are poured out into ocean, endless and tossing; it moves, the canvas pulls wood through sharp waves wrapping us in its darkness, with tears pouring and mouths whispering hope for sand, broken only with sweet water – free from the salt of tears, England, ocean; salt musk in our nostrils and wine musk in ours heads, with all of us beer drunk and tossing dry mouths and wet cloth draped, trapped, dripping down into the cracks of the wood skeleton surrounding us – force pulling through endless ocean with our prayers, salt tongues, blind swollen eyes, and hunger; pulling toward God, fantasy, freshness.