Words at Sea

Words don’t eat, or if we do,
It’s what we mean we must eat.
On what else could a name feed?

A sign is like a live cell,
Like that ship, the parts of which,
One and by one, all get switched,

But at all times still one ship,
One live cell, one sign. Our sounds,
Shapes, and use each shift by bits,

But there’s some through-line to this.
Is that it? Is that still life?
Boats made of waves sail the waves.