I think of conversations heard on board, how little
mail contains, my skin
bristling in the wind. Think of myself most of all—
who would I talk to back in Glasgow?
The postcard hotted to the states: "I broke
for Mull today... It's early June... " How can one grasp
a continent away the highland rocks that pocket
in my fist?
The water's crossbow slits, the reeds' backlash.
Volcanic plots grow heavy in the wrists.
