Churned clouds and vertebrae of gales meander over
                                             your fears
                                             spitting sand in lungs,
                                             that missed a few pages of breaths,
                                             there, in the Ventose cove,
                                             in ribcages,


                                              broken.




~

Outside your binoculars there’s a static world.
Feel the blanket around you,
thick, soiled cobwebs,
moth-woven,
moth-eaten,
embracing the skinny throats of stifled candles
like an empty fishing net.

~

                                       Even termites have abandoned this place and the
                                       windowsill keeps their leftovers like sentiments from
                                       a past life,
                                       more real.

~

Long ago your apprehensions built a mast.
Oary gaze is a storm – they plow the waves like cordage-marked fingers.

~

Salt-caramelized russet sediments on the panes mothball pieces of a jigsaw on your face,
a jigsaw of a hold’s gloom and coal.
And shy stars dive into you, you – the alluvion of darkness.

~

Distance’s bosom is bottomless – vestiges of lanterns and ferries
as many as the lighthouses you’ve built on your bare toes – run, always lost in shimmering coverts and weeds.

~

Run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
like back then along the seafront and the harbour when your hair used to be long.
No looking back now, you’ve peered hard enough.

~

                                             Churned clouds and vertebrae of gales mock you
                                              spitting anchors in a heart
                                              that whispers the names of the sea-eaten,
                                              there, in the Ventose cove,


                                              in ribcages,



                                              broken.