Starkness is: The boat called tender left me dry an age ago.
From desert isles, I’ve watched its mocking stern dissolve
into the distant yearnly shadows hazed around the fading
foglike vagrancy which now explodes my streaming heart.
Dementia is another of the vessel’s names, so nature says,
while sitting here awaiting other boats in vain (for I have
long forgotten what the gooseflesh trope could mean and
l o n g ago gave up all hope for thighs amidst such rain).
I’ve lost my moorings well beyond the point of no return
& send this message inabottle: “To whom it may concern,
are U the little bit of synchronicity I lack to set my course?
(although I am in truth already free & strong, untameable,
I keen 4 something that 4 me is now no more attainable”)
Where is that featherbed on which my sap should flow?
The chasm on my couch: It needs some cosmic mistletoe.
© Alan Morrison, 2019