Days at Sea

THIS level ocean, flat and circular
As a thin disk of steel, a widespread wheel,
Holds at its centre, day after passing day,
The driving ship that seemingly pursues
From one unchanging spot its outward way.

Horizon-locked, the speeding engines make
No headway toward the single curving line
That lies so sharp, so dangerously fine
Against the sky, it might, indeed, cut through —
Like some huge circular saw, nick a quick gash,
Inflict a cosmic flaw
Where we, ship-prisoned, would espy the flash
Of a new zodiac’s forbidden sign.

Thus the mind idles while the eye must pace,
Hunger-compelled, the compass points of space
Seeking its natural food: shape, form — birds, trees,
Or failing these, at least the raised irregular waves of storm.
But the ring holds, in cold persistency, nothing
But empty sky, unyielding sea.
O ship, strive forward, speed! — let engines roar;
Force from the circle a straight line of shore.