The islands
grow dim on their bed of mist.
We fix their positions
through the night,
but with dawn they're always
somewhere else.
One approaches us,
a cresting Leviathan
crowned with its tail,
no face to the front.
Its flying wedges
show what effort the world makes
to be. The waves say, "always,"
the sky says, "never."

                              The islands
have a different truth.
Each makes its own poem.
This one nuzzles closer
and whispers—what?
The waves catch its secret
and leave it, a blind oracle
The Truth of Islands—2

tolling the sky.