Siren

Seven poets, awake at hours most of the world misses. Each watching for something they could not quite name. A spiral through Orion's still beauty, Hopkins's praise of dappled things, Hardy's century-end thrush, Coleridge's vigil with his sleeping son, Whitman's release into the wordless, Wordsworth stopped on a bridge by a sleeping London. The point was never to answer. The point was to be awake.

We follow the tide out to the edge of the map and home again, where every crossing is also a leaving.