a blind sailor can’t see where the ship has sailed, still. the journey is map-less. about the seas, for that sailor, is home. to navigate and explore and gyre. this is veto, these waves, the rolling. the ocean, the distance. unanchored directionless. the salted face. the torn seams of the sails above, the weather. the length of time between voyages.
the ebb of falling-rising-floating by the moon-cast light. no dread just lasting. that sailor wears black pessimism, and something that sailor is not prepared for. the stars, the planks and a wind traveling through the empty sightless hollows. the silence above and the surging below. that sailor is facing backward, neither stopping nor starting. a shadow gliding, omnipresent. that sailor stopped breathing. that sailor will not answer.
there is the dark, the wood, the distinction important and cased in midnight suits. the difference is in the command, not taking any action, limited to advising the circumstance created. a dangerous situation. that sailor has hand, and reef, and steer. a single pulse, one minute of arc of latitude along the meridian. waves push torrents of static towards the sky.