The boats in the international port prove that from the edge of The Great Lake, though fresh, though still, no scrap of earth can’t be reached. For his sake, V has stepped onto a ship. She has peppered that which she would rather salt. V does not want to feel left at the edge of The Lake, rocks and alewives circling her feet. She can see the arc where it goes to disappear, and so God made the world round. She can see evaporation, the heavens reclaiming the rain, the last breath of every last breath she has known. V has never felt left before, but what is a shore but a place to be left, bereft? World without end, thinks V, holding a mirror to the mouth.