For World Poetry Day

This begins in the womb,
that sense of sailor, the sound
of — is it ever music? — this
motion — and are they words? —
these building blocks, one
upon the other upon a
choice between — 

and if we ever could,
would we pull up anchor
and depart along these
rivulets, this tsunami, into —
and if our eyes ever asked
for trinkets, would we —
a priori — hum a rhythm — 

to how we always imagined—
even when the sun has set
and the moon lows to
indistinct trees and we grope
for distinction, for our
emotional arrival at the next
dock, the next raising of the anchor.