His sightline snaggled with marl
Ulíses woke from his out-cold
somersault through salt buffets,
head pillowed on wavemelt,
his old nets matted about him
in a nylon kilt. An hour of raw,
hollered vowels over having to
unpick that oakum before
he set his nails to the task,
wore their edges dull and blunt,
worked the ropes in two loose plaits.
Ocean’s labials, plosives.
The iamb roar beat him into peace.
Ulíses saw spars he’d known
gather in the drifts. Laptop.
Tripod. His telephoto lens.
Ulíses laid aluminium ribs,
a spine, snapped his material
into shape. The hillside wind
turbines were bleached oars
sunk to mark all journeys’ end.
In his fist was a bolus of twine.
Ulíses combed the frayed nets
out around the new skeleton.
Sank an unbroken fishing rod
in gravel to act as a mast.
Unspooled black and white
rigging down the graphite stem.
Knotted prow to stern. A lighter
craft rose from the nets, aimed
at another shore. He turned
inland. Called her Nausicaa.