Columbus

the body floats on the flat sea under a grey sky. no ripple. just a heavy, waterlogged sack lifting and dropping with the swell. no fight left in the meat. he drifts like a chunk of foam, arms out, face half tilted to the clouds and half soaked in the brine. eyes open, fixed on nothing. the water doesn’t know his name. it just moves him the same way it moves plastic crates, diesel slick, and torn life jackets.

the water is cold, thick with fuel oil.

when a man goes apart on the surface, the sea doesn’t have an opinion. it rolls on. it rolled the same way before anyone ever tried to cross it on plywood and prayer. and the clothes stay ballooned with air for now, turning slow with the tide. a bit of orange nylon against the grey.

no alliance between man and sea.

the Sunday papers,
trying to cross the channel,
makeshift dinghy.