by Gideon Burton
No less than sea foam dancing in the thin
reluctance dropping from the rising moon;
at least as much as vapored salt whose din
against the rocks and pier fills up the swoon
of old humidities. I have a boat
to launch against such listlessness, a sail
I’ve furled too tightly lest its fibers bloat
and founder me, though tacking hard the rail
of purling orients -– a ship of dreams
rewoven by the melodies of dusk,
a small but able craft that’s caulked and seamed
and rife with spices: cumin, curry, musk.
The spray explodes and douses all the wood;
the decks of heaven shiver where they stood
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Polifemus
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