I would have turned to salt
looking back at what
we had. So all driftwood was burned
before we could lash it into
a raft. Nails from boards once
part of a boat or a home broken
by storms we never saw, freed
by our burning, dropped
into the embers. Quiet things
that burrowed into wet,
dead wood dried up
and died. I had once planned
for a sail made like a god’s
shirt and music made with
the hollow bones of birds.
The wind brought enough smoke
to bless me and to stop
me from singing
of what I would not have sacrificed
in order to set sail.