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Anchor the essentials first:
date, time, approximate location.
Use ink.
Say it's genuine octopus,
especially if it's not.
Whatever you do,
don't let blankness
buckle you, even if
your ship's rumbling
like a bone caught
in God's throat
& you've lost
the horizon line.
Chart the stars overhead or
at least allude to them.
In case of clouds, invent.
Bend your knees for balance.
Keep a steady hand.
If you must detail your troubles,
make it fun.
I've run out
of drinking water
but I've got a stack
of fruit cocktail. Now I just
have to remember where
I stashed the can opener
Ask questions.
How have you been?
Are you working?
Are you sleeping?
Are you eating?
Does she love you?
Sign your name,
the one [the recipient]
knew you by.
Resist unnecessary postscripts.
Fold. Stuff. Lick shut. Drop
the entire envelope
overboard.
Don't panic;
picture your words dissolving
to saltwater,
well-chosen verbs swelling
beyond context & swirling
down past fish
you never knew existed,
fish so self-sufficient
their insides glow.
Should you feel seasick,
grip the rails.
Study your knuckles.
Count backward from two.
Imagine each molecule of ink
faintly everywhere,
sounding the depths,
buoying you up,
tinting the tap water in foreign lands
you've yet to travel through.
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