I want to rock your boat
I want to talk to your ark,
hear it like an Ent-become-Ancient-Mariner,
grumbling and shifting his jaw of logs,
melodies of fowl and livestock drones
when he yawns to speak

I want to bask in the long yowls of
a baby calf lost to its mother
while your ark pauses, mouth open,
on course to respond to my comments
with something his first owner told him
in their months together on the flat infinite sea;
something he agreed with
when his holds were much less depleted,
the sea, proud and accomplished, rubbing his belly;
when his fit breaths
bleated and cawed with the variety of a great garden,
the heft of a church organ