Focaccia Bread Afloat
Do not send me into exile, please.
I’m there; I’m sent.
Give me a radio then,
you did, it’s broken.
The sun and the starlight
and the convenience of
solitude, inspire.
A turtle licks my toe.
This rig will fly and float.
I am atop the mast, thinking:
“Voices across the water,
captured by down swells,
shoved deep into the ocean.”
I pass an island; I pass a man
who sleeps beneath a yellow umbrella,
wine bottles and failed notes
scattered about.
He needs a ride.
That’s my flag you see from shore.
I’m back; I have a radio, broken.
I am not changed by distance increased-
this is the opposite of exile.