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