Over the Atlantic, eastbound

From a pearl in the rim of fire,
to the headstead in the nether
—and through the invisible bridge
twelve thousand metes above the sea—
lands the twenty-hour fare tilback.
We’ve no at-home, no fatherland, and no ancestral home,
but a travelpass and a few temporary residence permits.
There’s walks along the strand,
and shipfares on the skyline,
random stops in The Haw, or The Eye,
and citywalks like a newworldtourist.
There’s empty seats and empty sets and empty balls.
But there’s no whales in the sea
or wights boveon the land
or fowl under the sky
as kind as the little rabbit with the leather jacket
and the baggy pants.