In the digital commons, I lean in close, ask you what battle wound found that scar, undress the poet privateer of movement. Sheath myself, with a book of verse I slipknot into at dawn. Lick the words off the page, typography disappearing, December estuary, your ship slinging in reverse, no rifle, only a compass. Lightly, lightly, walk. Await the strake. I fall into grace. This is the first time, and the next night, again the first.