Setting sun ebbs on eastern slope
and line of shadow rises like dark water forcing forms of day to go under. I will sleep, I will dream I will drift down as creature browsing sunken architecture of ship. No one knows when it sailed or on what oceans. It has cabins, corridors metal-hinged chests dagger-locked. Some say moon lost inamorto on that ship – swept off bow when mutinous wave broke sudden. Again and again from heaving froth he called but course was set and her knuckles gripped white the gunwales of stern. In pale morning she went below lifted his shirt from the heaven of bed hung it in dark confine of closet. If dreaming ever bring you to that ship beware the smell of spices, beware the glimpse of her shimmering leg. And pray thee note the scattered skeletons of them who sought that inmost bed fancied they could don that smoldering shirt.
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AuthorWalker Abel Archives
July 2017
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