at the mouth of the strait
are endless rows, hills of gray green water
constantly moving, flowing,
breaking upon themselves
throwing plumes of white spray
whipped away by the wind
the world, my world
the steel deck, the bulkheads, the racks
the mess tables and the food itself
are constantly moving, never still, changing
rolling, pitching, heaving
until that just became how it was
and stillness and calm
were strangers to us
The Ace Hotel Notebook 