My story begins at sea， in the bitter liquid.

    If not， it would begin in Florida， along I-95

    in the circular drive of a circular， lime-green motel.

    But I have selected the sea， and you must

    trust me on this. Truly terrible stories

    begin in navigational error， a slight misreading

    of the sight that sets the crew in a maelstrom.

    Perhaps in another story it would be a man

    standing at the door， surprised that he's knocked，

    that you have， in turn， answered. He wishes

    now that he had lingered in that drive， paused

    before resuming the course toward your door.

    As the crew， in desperate but unspoken straits，

    wishes belatedly for a drag on the anchor.

    Frequently， we are thus carried along.

    Frequently， de profundis， we struggle ashore

    to find ourselves， if not stranded， then beached.

    We are inclined to be grateful for land.

    Survivors of shipwreck cast two shadows：

    the outline of interrupted light， and an aura， thirst

    to drown again. Perhaps， in the unwritten story，

    the man at the door looks thirsty. You sense

    he has come to repair himself at the dry dock

    of your flesh. There is nothing else to do.

    Your home is an island of white sand

    and he wades in from the shoals of the walkway

    asking for fresh water. So you find him berth.

    This much Miranda herself could explain：

    how Ferdinand come shimmering from the sea

    appeared no less a rescuer than she，

    with his handful of kelp and the pretty words

    of a man desperate for sanctuary.

    Ferdinand missed that she was shipwrecked

    too. Miranda had the shadowy thirst.

    You know the rest of the story.

    They're happy. Then it ends in the bitter sea.