Prospero's Confession

Charles Jensen

What wreckage, I forgot. What
            courage to sail, forgot. What
                        ocean? Forgot. Where I started

distant memory, fogged like glass
            beneath my breath. What
                        star I followed long since died.

She was a foolish star—she
            won’t be missed by me
                        or other travelers. What

island, what robe I wore—what
            detail’s so essential it cannot be ignored?
                        The sea throws up its axe-like blades

against the sky. What
            does water want, after all?
                        We push against the boundary—

sky, or skin—in hopes
            we slash our blind way through,
                        like wind.