Saint Brendan started out over the sea
in a basketwork bird nest that resisted
its rudder, a long pole of a paddle.
It wanted to turn, the stern rocking around
to the front, taking the place of the bow,
the bow to the stern, port to starboard
around and around, the Lord possibly
wanting the good saint and his brothers
to be able to see what was coming,
while at the same time reflecting upon
the wake of good works falling behind,
all this while the present spun dizzily
round and around, the improvident rudder
slapping the tops of the waves, the saint
standing up in his bird nest, one holy hand
holding onto the bow as it spun around
into the stern, the other out pointing
the way, as the way turned around him,
the way which was every which way,
his rosary dipping down into the waves,
then up, dripping away from his fingers.
