Humble, homely, whisker-snouted
recluse—you
were no sultry mermaid and I,
alone in that rented canoe,

was no scurvy Blackbeard
keeping a lookout for you.
Aye! You were a silent passerby,
some strange sea-shape I

did not see swim so much as glide,
nor glide so much as fly.
And yet, O blubber!
What was there to identify?

Humble, homely, whisker-snouted
recluse—you
were no sultry mermaid and I,
alone in that rented canoe,

was no scurvy Blackbeard
keeping a lookout for you.
Aye! You were a silent passerby,
some strange sea-shape I

did not see swim so much as glide,
nor glide so much as fly.
And yet, O blubber!
What was there to identify?

You were a thought, an endangered
nautical motion
crossing that bare expanse
and headed, it seemed, for the ocean.

You were the legend that the snook
could never be—a silent arrival,
a postmodern sailor's
map to survival,

a Weeki Wachee woman
and reminder of land,
the desire of seeing a shoreline
and seashells, lines in the sand.