Unlike a romantic painting
Dead thoughts underneath have no lines in between
Where green decay has sunk,
No shape to control the sailors who went.
All that remains are some bones and some teeth
And the rest flows post-mortem ashore of your brain,
In miniscule quantities,
But you like to put your feet in the water
And think about beauty and poems.
How could you link your toes
With rubber blue fingers,
Eyes staring up where the water begins?
With your straw hat and waving blonde hair
Your thoughts dance to life. Come and join me, you sing.
For a moment you are the poor sailor’s wife.
For a moment your thoughts are for him.