(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.