Shackled to a whole black sea,
Riding the red-tide, this barnacled
Dead ship, skulled and crossboned,
Lists, grinding lumber
In a jacket of worms, diminishing ghost.
All the long gone pirates: They
Get back, though, soon,
Soon, be it by wake, funeral,
Childbirth to a womb:
Any touch a sanctuary, usurping time
Between tick and tack of the clock;
Until they go, each freebooter to lie
Deadlocked in shadows of blue with cold,
Never seeing the sun come up, and are met,
Instead, by wave-tips glittering like jack plugs.
Fading apparitions, ghosts dwindling on peg-legs,
Bureaus of bones, wavering, gauze-edged;
Trailing rudder into the crisp dark cusp of the sea,
Skeletons thin to nothing, the draggled lot;
The ship ribbed every winch and stay.
Copyright © 11/16/18 lance sheridan®