Polynesian sailors could tell where islands
Lay within a hundred miles just by trailing
Fingers off the prow of the boat.  They knew that
          Waves are responsive,
Image where they beach by rebounding, telling
Tales of shores beyond the sight. In that braid of
Echoes twined necessity: where the haven,
          How far the harbor.
Ripples, undistorted by oceans.  Only
Touch, a trawling delicacy, could pull that
Surface scatter into a map/cat’s cradle.
          Think of those spreading
Signals, bearing imprints of coastlines far as
Albatrosses wander: an intercrossing
Quilt of truths, and only an open hand could
           Comb out their message.
Stroke your fingers over the sea face.  Sea-mess:
Flotsam; wrack; scum; dominant, secondary
Swells. We read blind. Players and patients, trusting
            Touch as our pilot.