In The Vaulted Hull Of An Upturned Ship
Amongst the jostling tree-line pines
A sudden clearing in sharp incline,
Cairned, triangulating,
Tilting towards a glimpsing surf
Listening, waiting
Stranded on the needled turf's
Thin and bitten lip
Clinkered planks freshly caulked
Watertight. Baulked by brevity of breath,
In pale imitation of an "easeful death",
The man with a bullet caught in his brain
Succumbs, onto his knees again
As the ocean's sonorous hum retreats.
Senses thrumming, canting Keats,
Losing his bearings, slipping his sheets
Familiar words forgotten, failing,
Tottering reason torn and trailing
Along the grainy warping boards
Prone before the Queen of Swords.
As icy sleep creeps in to freeze.
Up in the rigging of the trees
Un ship-shaped by the wind's unease
Cloud on a crow's-nest tossed in alarm
The moon on a gibbet, flailing arms
Weaving a cross-hatched web of boughs
Closing the sky to the here and the now.
She holds out the hope, or so it seems,
To bind to his heart the blue moon beams
On her succouring breasts' offered gleams
Her compassionate longing unbuckles her belt
She cradles his face on her tawny pelt
Caresses his mouth with a burgeoning rose
As graceful healing appetites grow.
Together they pitch away all harm
In the roll of the ocean's swelling charm
And the wave-fall repeating
Warm rain beating
Consummations
Of
Calm