Lone Voyager by Theo Dorgan

for Ilhan

The boat pulls on through the night,

steady and sure. I lash the helm

and go below, light up the GPS.

On Google Earth I have found

the exact co-ordinates of the prison,

the exact distance from this point

on the rolling bosom of the water.

I move the cursor and mark the bearing.

On deck again with a handheld compass

I orient myself as the foresail cracks and fills.


From some deep chamber of the heart

I mount a blessing on my breath and

bounce it off the moon — it curves off

and down to where, on a bare patch

of parched blue-lit concrete, a yard

deep inside high white walls, a flower

stands modest in the still air. I call

from the drifting mist of silence three drops

of dew to fall delicate on the yellow petals,

to slide with infinite grace to the very root.

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