by Gideon Burton
The ocean like a ragged fabric scrapes
the passing vessels, coral-clawed and cold.
It's just a running metaphor that shapes
the currents of my thoughts as they are rolled
from stem to stern, at odds with what is level,
with anything that's docked and roped and sure.
Oh, I could try another one less beveled,
and it would work until its edges blurred
into cliche or quaintness. Look, the storm
approaches (outside, inside, both). Am I
prepared to leave comparisons so warm
with frigid drownings, whales and birds and sky?
Whatever freight of figures sinks inside,
you grapple it for all drowning ride.
Image: flickr - Lrn2Go