I see Insects and Fish.

Insects in huge brick ships
cooking their dinners
and munching their leaves,
(with mouths that frighten one all the same)
oblivious to our bipedal oceans
rising and falling beneath
the tenuous
string-like rigging of their balconies.

The fish don't swim in the sea,
they are the water
and the Water has retired,
sending them postcards
now and then.

And each of them disrupt my navigation
with constant challenges
to hold their gaze
(above or below)
and maybe,
with their own little siren's song
like a cyanide kiss of warmth
to a man
in love with almonds.

I can dodge the ships
though the insects jeer.
I can walk on water,
convinced that I'm Jesus,
though the fish look over
and tell me I'm not.