(after Mallarmé)
Those zeroes, foam, that clear line
echoes but a glass’s rim
as, far away, there plunge slim
sirens into sea-blue wine;
we voyage, O my diverse
friends, I upright on the stern
whilst you, at the sharp prow, turn
brows to lightning, tides, winters.
A fine intoxication
compels me to raise this toast,
standing tall and with no fear,
a toast to whatsoever –
solitude, star, coral coast –
is worth our sail’s white concern.
