What he took with him --
pronouncements & predictions
less oracular meditations
& Triple Alliances
his tapped-out mines
underground caverns
rain forests still pristine
& the rest of his Atlantis
were not from his voyage to Tripoli
or expeditions mounted to Majorca
but settled-for driftwood of unknown origin
he could share with you;
not unlike your halcyon visits
to the unsafe ledge of the dock
his seafarer charts were as complex
as his destinations simple.
And when the marine layer is pierced
& what is permanent
is indifferent, inanimate
& lacking his compass
there are to be everyday Challengers Deep;
blood grows heavy & resists the heart
& that plaintive voice in the crowd
is your own, thrown back without comment
& his trips east
& his soon to be submerged ports abroad
were travelled on a globe
no one can visit but you.
Carry his voice in a geographer's pouch,
latitude forged in the name he gave you
longitude in what he taught you
of how perfect that world had been
& the other world --
one maddeningly intact
buzzing with some sort of importance --
is not your world.
It is a time of rationing.
Of incense without effect.
Clarity is no more.
Absence is ostinato.
for Phil
6 December 2011