Sailing to Italy

The old props vanish
By which we posed
Always, we like to think,
As ourselves. And the ship,
Bound by a notion of blankness,
Bears us away.
Aware that to be on deck,
Above all, means
Desire to heave, or regard
Without purpose
Porpoises arching themselves,
We keep our main
Uneasiness below,
Cramped in the bar,
Where each discovers land
In common, and tries
Somehow to fabricate
His missing habits.
We sway this way and that
In makeshift stances
Until, in rougher water,
We doubt our sense
Of balance will ever set us
Straight again.
Finding it hard to stand
The life on board,
We think ahead, and wonder
Which will be stranger
When we arrive: ourselves
Or solid land.