He builds a ship as if it were the last thing
holding him together, as if, when he stops,
his body will fall onto the plate-glass water
and shatter into sand. To keep his morale up
he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles louder
and taunts him: Your ship will build itself
if you throw yourself into the sea; time
has a way of growing your beard for you.
Soon, you’ll find yourself on a rocking chair
on some porch made from your ship’s timbers.
The window behind you is made from a sail, thick
canvas, and no one inside will hear your calling
for milk or a chamberpot. Your children
will have all sailed to the New World and left you.
But he tries not to listen, continues to hammer
nail after nail into timber after timber,
but the wind finally blows him into the growling ocean
and the ship falls apart on its own.