Au Gres

Slip the slip in a glass boat, “the sedative”.
Down the channel, headed out to see.
Past the dead stuff washed up on the bank.
The far point calling me.
Ship to shore misinformation.
Not a man as far as I can see.
By the time they decode this dispatch...
The whale will have swallowed me.

Her kisses are carrots so sugary sweet.
I belong to the sea.
Concord whispers... the capital theme:
You can't fight destiny.

So don't.