The boat’s a white statue on the glass bay,
her sails flat as last night’s wine. Thin moonlight
tickles water. He turns in circles, chained
to the hot lens. He’s forced to memorize
precise longitudes of lateen-rigged masts
and antique hulls for forgotten reasons.
On Fridays, they feed him from flotsam casks.
He sleeps through blue mornings with his knees on
cool brass. Drowned sailors still trade loose rumors—
they swap lies about a bound beacon, lost
to sin. Waves whisper salty tales—blue words
to neap tides. He keeps track of misplaced coasts,
chained against light—arms wide as a mother’s—
Sail mender. Briny convict. Glass blower.