I am not a sailor.

I am meant to die on land,

ashes spread above sea level,

or in a coddled urn above the hearth.

My voice is paper and

where I choose to exist,

a white world that is not sky—

this voice of mine.

I have no ensign.

My heart beats soft, beautiful words,

a language of stars,

that knows that the twinkle

was once magnificent suns.