Erik Lomen
Sailing Off Winter Island (the last visions of a dying sailor)

I hope he saw
...
His glasses
banked bends
around the world
like
eyes

kelp curling senses

        his eyes
Their curves
murky

        optical cut
shot magnified
pupils

into
        working waning
moons
sanctity of sky

typing sparrows
out on
sand-sinking
raw hide

 

 
 
 

like rows
of paper dolls
falling from grasp

spiral traffic
against the bright
blue
levitated knots
keeling sharp
whipping woodwind

through water, whirl breezes
beneath teeth
        and now
a graveyard
of shadows
stretching looming tombs
of schooners
last dropped
against searing sun
rattling masts

but no more
ocean
breeze
to breathe