Behind the controls and looking out
Something steers that lumbering mass
It’s ship is become wobbly and slow
Eyelids painted exotic colors fly wildly
Last remnants of heady days and dreams
Sure the sails slouch and the bulwark sags
And the hull waterlogged bulges
Yet inside a little captain ready eyes sharp
Scans the horizon and tucks the spyglass
Wrestles the helm and sends down an order
We need fuel
Tacos sound good let’s have those
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XXVI: Passage to India”)
Life Immense 