With oars I sign the guestbook of the waves,
And leave a wake of whorls to be my signature —
As binding and ephemeral a ligature
As ever a sailor looped on phantom staves.
Astern, in cursive carried on the crests,
My strokes are swept expanding, slackening, dodging;
The tides’ epistle’s to the Inn addressed,
And to the Innkeeper in his unfathomable lodging.