This is in the wind:
that an old seaman
paces the planks again
as his weedy hull parts
the saltseries inaudibly.
What ho! She carries full sails
and the chant of the grog-quaffers
in an important manner.
But there is no port
and the wind is distracted
from her simple stern
like the mind.
Continuously the undefined plane
emerges

in the form of a ship,
her nose speeding in the brine-ellipsis,
routing the shads and alewives
from her shaping way.
And the wind
and the mind sustain her
and there is really
no step upon the gangway,
nothing but the salt deposits