Ploughed flesh, forearms
the runners of a steam ship.
Cock, blunt rudder replaced endlessly.
Heart matches the heat;
sand warmed through the years -
the grains trickle
into need;
coals feed
the furnace -
each a coil of mortality.
Beneath hard twists and turns
sand moves, tiny scales of serpent flesh,
unshaken, untouched by imprints, hold form
until weakest wind
or smallest ripple
annihilates.
The shore recedes; sea-green
hermit crabs sink
into depths beneath words.
As I leave rolling sea
it is all I can do not to turn and see
who enters behind me.
No comments:
Post a Comment