I let go of the earth, let go 
of its awkward turning, and hiss
through daylight, a dart of dreams
that need feeding. I choose water 
heavy with brine because 
it's darker there and the sea 
keeps its own rhythm.
Nothing but a big boat, or 
maybe a moon, changes its lilt. 
Fish have small hearts,
gills that can't sift sky.
I fly in the face of morning.
I never give up hunger.
Even after the stars 
take their fill, grow weary 
competing for brightness,
I dive and climb.
Efficient fisher. I know 
what they call me—thief, 
liar, slick-talking son-of-oil.
But I'm quick as obsidian. 
I break down scale and bone, carry
kelp salt in these wings. I hustle
every husk of boat—tanker, ferry.
I cull the waves. I plunder.