Do you know that my heart is to your rudder tied and in the raging battle if you lose courage and set sail to the headland there to watch on afraid, I will turn my ships and follow, hang honour, hang shame. Does it matter if we rule the Nile and Parthia and lands beyond or nothing but our own desire hotter than the desert sun? Let the ships lie stranded there on the beaches, keels and hulls exposed and the white foam cresting, coming home. Let the gulls call plaintively that the turning, ticking world might be undone if our love is made and made again. There are kisses soft and sweet the world could never comprehend as it sends its fleets on the heels of fleets to sea to fly its flags and battle there. These kisses are born between the rise and fall of moments where the lusty battle lunges at its own reflection and succumbs to its own momentum. These are kisses stolen in the manner that Prometheus once stole hot licking fire from gods too busy with the thunder of their affairs to spy the spreading light opening up the night. The masts point every which way on the sandy shelf of time it’s true but I’m fine trembling here with you.