now talking to himself
his hand half-dipped in the water
head tilted back against the hard, cold curve
of his boat
with the brine-and-seaweed smell
of endless blue
filling him,
he waits

until there;
on the edge of the world
right before it dips away into nothing
birds
flying low
over a sliver of rock
of dirt
of land

with blistered fingers stinging in the salt
he drags his boat south
until his fingernails scrape over stones
and broken shells stick in his skin
and he crawls from the boat cackling
and thanks the birds for leading him here
repays one by catching it
spearing it on a stick
and eating it

so sick
to the core
of fish