We had no Circe to caution us,
no sailors to bind us to a mast,
when we saw a flash of a rising white cap,
we headed down the gravel path.
Like a southern mistress, the Gulf sashayed,
threw sprays of kisses,
I have all that she has
salt, sand, the seagulls’ caws
Weathered and spent,
we unfolded our map
—from here to the sea 500 miles—
couldn’t we maybe just call it a day.
We hemmed and hawed
while the Gulf pressed on
lulling us with her soothing cliché,
it’s the journey not the finish
as if this refrain could reel us in
make us believe the means is the end.