Charles Simic - The Body

This last continent

Still to be discovered.

 

My hand is dreaming, is building

Its ship. For crew it takes

A pack of bones, for food

A beer-bottle full of blood.

 

It knows the breath that blows north.

With the breath from the west

I will sail east each night.

 

The scent of your body as it sleeps

Are the land-birds sighted at sea.

 

My touch is on the highest mast.

It cries at four in the morning

For a lantern to be lit

On the rim of the world.