They say the fleet was made of wood, but I think it was made of ideas waterproof with certainty, painted in natural alphabet. We sent men out to sea to prove geometry existed. They came back very fluent in drowning. I found a map and it folds itself. Really does. Every crease leads to Rome you know. Every compass points to “again.” Everywhere but North. We rowed in circles, The Senate called it progress though. So we went on. The helmsman was blind, but fluent in Latin. That was enough, his master proclaimed. I then asked him where the horizon went. He said: “We legislated it.”, then dropped the Mike. Somewhere, a philosopher lost his sandals and invented logic to find them. We conquered that too, and charged admission.. Yeah you have to pay too. The fleet was meant to prove that marble could float if it believed in itself. Every oar beat in iambic pentameter. We called it rowing like never before. Someone whispered, “The Greeks built better ships.” We wrote that man out of history, politely. So very polite. East of our ambition, the air was much too calm. We took it for weakness. They took it for art. They didn’t send ships they sent silence. It arrived on time and faster as it were. There was a clerk who kept the tide on schedule. Every wave required a signature. The sea complained once we filed it under “mythology.” I remember a captain saying, “The gods can swim. We can’t. That’s why they admire us.” We cheered. And sank. Not immediately, but with dignity. Now I hear Rome whenever I close my eyes not the city, the sound of its paperwork. The way the wind moves to accommodate statues. They say history’s a cycle. I think it’s an oar blunt, repetitive, occasionally rhythmic. We keep rowing. No water left. Still rowing. Still.. Fleet of mind… Fleet of maybe. Fleet of forgetting.
