Whoever Finds a Horseshoe

Turned to the forest, we say:
This is a forest for timbers and ship masts,
The red tinged pines
Freed from the weight of their clump to the crown,
Should groan in the gale
Like solitary pines
Through furious deforested air;
The plumbline, fastened to the prancing deck, held in
    the wind's salt step.
And seafarers,
Loosed in their thirst for space,
Dredge fragile sextants through waterlogged furrows,
To set the rough sea surface
To the earth's embrace.

And breathing the smell
Of resinous tears, weeping through planking,
Admiring the bulkhead arrangements
...