Slip the slip in a glass boat, “the sedative”.   Down the channel, headed out to see.   Past the dead stuff washed up on the bank.   The far point calling me.   Ship to shore misinformation.   Not a man as far as I can see.   By the time they decode this dispatch…   The whale will have swallowed me.      Her kisses are carrots so sugary sweet.   I belong to the sea.   Concord whispers… the capital theme:   You can’t fight destiny.      So don’t.