Float Ahead

Not out of nothing
Into nothing much
But into nothing

Out of nothing much—
Creation’s into,
Always, never out,

Tied to the bowsprit,
Nevermind the mast,
Pummeled by foaming

Wine-dark waves and wind,
Not at all tempted
By tendrils of song.

It’s water-boarding
And battering more
Than riding some shell

Modestly attired
In nothing but self.
If you get across

Some patch of ocean
To scratch up ashore,
You’re fit to sail more.