The one who reaches the crow's-nest
has to go by way of a boot full of water,
wearing a long rope burn and blue tattoos,
and drinking a bucketful of salt,
and always with an eye big enough to let in a star.
The one who reaches the crow's-nest has to go
by the path of most resistance,
leaving the deck behind with childhood wishes
and climbing from the wide life of floors
to the narrow end of the telescope filled by a moon.
The one who reaches the crow's-nest absolutely
must want to, rehearsing in dreams
the layout of cat's cradles and spider webs,
forgetting all ordinances and averages,
apathetic to the widening embrace of the planets.
The one who reaches the crow's-nest,
the one who tops the mast and the crow's-nest,
has to go up by way of the two hands of a pulley,
by following the fists of the clock to noon,
and by turning his face to the blind dial of the cosmos.