On Water

"Furrow" is inexact:

no ship could be

converted to a plough

travelling this vitreous ebony:

seal it in sea-caves and

you cannot still it:

image on image bends

where half-lights fill it

with illegible depths

and lucid passages,

bestiary of stones,

book without pages:

and yet it confers

as much as it denies:

we are orphaned and fathered

by such solid vacancies: