Dave Bonta's "Voyages" starts with a simple restlessness: the urge to set out, to put the body to some purpose. But the speaker quickly admits something uneasy about that impulse. The devil is "in on it," and travel becomes the best way to keep the self from facing itself. Moving, in other words, can be a form of hiding.
The poem then shifts to a quieter wish about history. Whatever the past has become, the speaker imagines we might "wake without hurting it," as if waking up could be gentle rather than destructive. The final image is surprising and physical: a hunt for a nipple in clear rain. It suggests a return to something infant-like, a search for comfort and nourishment, set in clean, open weather.
The mood is searching and slightly wry, moving from restless escape toward a raw, tender need. The poem seems to suggest that the real voyage may be toward basic care rather than away from ourselves.