Salsatastic.

On the shoulders of boats

Her map is as well-travelled as she is
but wears the thumb-worn texture easier.
Each time she returns the sea wrinkles differently
and is glorious—each route she has travelled never the same.
The drift this time makes each mile two
but that just means more time with the blinking stars
and their sea-bent reflections; a particle history of space.

There are miles that pass quickly under momentum-hum wheels,
a flash of twittering and I-spy; the click click of cats eye drift.
These miles she takes at half-speed on the shoulders of boats
cradled by the rise and fall; a journey in three dimensions.
These miles she floats over with a precision that defies the assumption
of water. She is looking for pieces of things she has lost
that must be in the waves, or have at least passed through.
She is gathering strength.