Ghost Voyage Poem Walking through the Isles of Shoals

Reel Self

I desired the sea today;
I needed fourteen miles of vision.
Low clouds were pressing pines along
the river with emotional weight.
The ocean didn’t feel a thing.
I felt the mist of lost Atlantis
there and heard a foghorn speak
behind closed doors. Each distant island
was a word, an opening
to continental Christ ascending
from the lobster trap of thoughts
beneath ten thousand years of night.
I saw a boat become a wave
and then its wake become the light.

~Son Rivers 2008