And so it is, the boat has come to own you,
has learned to speak a language you cannot help
but agree with, its voice the dark lapping
of water against the hull, its song the wind
in the stays while you sleep, dreaming of a bowsprit
to hold you against the waves, and the boat
curls golden bracelets of cedar
around your wrists as you plane each
plank, its touch the dream of a body becoming
whole—to make the shape, to be shaped—and the boat
says please, says the honed edge
against clear grain is my small prayer to your devotion.
May you forget your life, may you
always be close.