From a distance, it’s simple to admire the hitch and pull
of rope and cloth, the competent rigging. Up close
is a different story. Sails are wrinkled and repaired, the rope
loses its hair. Easy to say that once water is cut
it closes, as though we have never been. But no transgression
is ever excised. Hence the patches. Hence the claw,
blush of blood. What we alter, remembers. Bears our mark
long into its afterlife.