I understand this:
islands are lost every day,
though the bony, bleached
parts of me will form
a new archipelago in water.

Most nights I pull only
nightmares from the harbor.
Gull and gut and salt,
a drowned Icarus.
I must wait for the storm
to leave my body
before I can put out
to sea, holes burned
in belly and sails.

I hunger for more
than smoked fish;
I have built you
from this ache.