I'm a keeper of things
that would be lost,
that would, if they could,
disappear into thick fog
like the back of a ship
closed over by a mist so dense
it soaks a sailor's eyes
and gathers as tears on his lash.
Unblindled by the damp,
I hold tight the mast,
lash myself to packets
others throw away.
Overboard lightens someone's load
but doesn't help a ship sail true.
It doesn't pull me under,
that which would be lost;
it doesn't weigh me down.
The opposite of to be lost
is to be kept, not to be found.
