On that 16th C. Map of the World back home, hanging decoratively on the wall, i can’t shake the presence of the creature, moving like a pulse rate, monitored on life support machinery, snaking through dark acrylic waters, a cautious galleon nearby, sailors praying for shrouding mist, superstitious mist, drunk on scurvy & weak rum, the sea making them drunkest— this is before Jim Cook discovered fresh fruits cure scurvy. Just once, the creature needs to dive & rudder up through the hull, the mizzen mast crashing into the central mast, the lookout plunging into that gaping butcher’s-drawer-mouth full of tools for gnashing flesh apart. The galleon lost, the crew, meat. i don’t eat meat like that creature, so it goes that i am better than a creature. We are all a sinking ship.