There’s someone, possibly hurt, missing.
(These planks of wood are proof.)
There’s a hole somewhere.
But that’s only part of the story I pieced
together from bits of shipwreck—
the impenetrable fog, the disfigured
mess, makes meaning of all this.
One black boot was washed up, its laces gone.
Somehow I know to look for the other. I stand
near the sea but can’t see past the fog. Useless.
But still, I look and find, I think, something
silent, and impassable, something the map