Sounds We stand on deck, the stink of chip fat fills our nostrils, rain smears the windows in filmy layer on layer. From here, we cruise past mountains, our cathedrals, and in translucent light we pass through lenses of water until our eyes hurt. You and I are sounding without a known destination; we sail through the break and out to sea. Sarah Penwarden   Liturgy of the hours Shell pink, burnt orange, red: hibiscus open, inching towards light. Cicadas sing: wind stirs the fern fronds, lifting the eaves of the house. Exhaust fumes and jasmine drift— the scent of…