I rock in my lock

and dip my brown big end in, heaves down

the cold pull of forward sculpts

each repeat motion cuts circles between the ocean.

 

Does propulsion really require a choice?

Must I in?

Must I out?

Must I trace salt drops through

the air?

Must I drag bubbles through the cold

inevitable distinction?

 

But a ligature's lull of

wondering means disruption

and I know

I'll be hoisted overboard

if I'm not cog in the good little engine

whose functions you can always predict

so I choose.

 

And let the punctured gunwale I'm locked in

thrusts me into fulcrum.

I am machine

I am simplified

I can now be put to use.