What matters of ocean is that it contains—caverns of ship carcass,
pissing kids, the whole night etched like an atlas on its surface. This
is what I want.
                         I want to keep the past like a pearl on my tongue,
to inherit the salt in my skin. I want to learn how horizon can curve
back into itself so I can say what ocean says of wreckage:
                                                                                             Dive into 
my chest, stay as long as you can breathe, chart this hull of bones.