at the ends,
we won’t know
where we’d been led
or exactly where to go.
to be trussed and knotted
lines of our pasts be forgotten
or whirling in fish traps
tangled in waves as the sea slaps,
we can’t see but two feet ahead.
cleverly clustered to keep warm, yet
taken up in boats.
not near and not far,
not one that man should boast.