Friday, April 2, 2010


My house is a ghost ship
hung with yellow lamps
foundered on the reef
of the morning

my little fish huddle
in their private sleep
the shadows of their little terrors
passing over and away

here the bed you left
here the plate and the bones
here are such rags as have draped around you
but you are gone

here is the mast I have lashed myself to,
here the jackline of your hands untied
here scylla. here poppies
here your song still hangs
above the wave and the seabird
and the starless dark
here the shipworm heart
in the carved and painted girl

birds throng the crosstrees
it is good friday
the sun and the moon-pulled water rise
and you are coming home
but not today

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