The ship's captain has lived in a centrifuge of raw dumbness till the age of 25.
He has no concept of driftwood, of Jones, of sweltered talons scathing the surface of water, that raw & blithe cry.
Only opium,
that massive thawing of the red orbs he reflects back into the sea.
The ship's captain
accelerates through a dune of sweat, a
tin of tobacco spilling onto his lap.
