Song for Oran

Yes, this work reflects your ocean
In pocket fjords of blue -- yet more
Than ghosting mirrors, you sail each
Toward the next, your smile the roller
Which collapses every next shore.
The poems proceed from me to you
To dream our child, his voice not ours
But some fourth choir of one, this dark
Book I slowly fill -- Or rather,
That nook your song coffined sailing
To frozen hell and back. Your tale
I ride down every page, or it
Fins me -- Never to end, nor quite
Say; not to propound or console
But freight the whale from pole to pole.