I drift to the moon, resting oars 
above deep water, floating miles above 
critters that skitter about the seabed.
As good a place as any to think.

My hand aches to snatch rare berries
from a privileged babe, coddled
child of piracy and injustice sure 
to further tresspass as his seasons turn.

But I have two hands; one closed, one open.
One is hard and one is soft and 
one must work as the other rests.
Slippery words writhing on silent hooks.

Whoever embodies the problem
needn't sink to the blackguard's cold abyss
in recompense. A thousand ships 
might be sunk uselessly herewith.

Before eyes were made to see, and minds
to argue the good of what they see,
scuttling critters embarked upon this path
steeped in and fraught with tragedy.