What of the fisherman skulks
in your heart?
What husks of hull sit rusting
ironed dull by sea over
sand over sea?
Luminescence at dawn
eyes, richly changed –
mussel shell
wool-scrubbed, made blue
then bluer
by the bucketfulbe soft as i am soft
You who knows my body, knows my face in ways
I do not know my face –
I should have let you capture me, still wild
in hand thrashing
under the focus of your great glass eye but the blue, the blue, the blue
It hurt to see it
Easier this – you
atop me
a drift
of dead wood.
