No moon

Who would have thought this old hard ground would empty wish and stream, and small shed hours prod scattered hearts, their prickly peace awake. No right, no don’t, no point, no light. No telling winds are gained. No full blown sail, no man, no boom – just slapping wood and tin. And maps rewrite and coasts unclear and pull-less shapes ascend, and tender skins and polar eyes wave frozen hands to land.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s