There are no boats,
but I know there are boats,
beyond the ragged black line,
where sky comes down to water
and light bestows fragrant blessings.
Maybe, I'm a bottom feeder of a sea,
dwelling with others amid the loss of sun.
The reason must be I'm borrowing the light.
Sparked fancy swims with dread, worn words.
Cold fists sort sorrows, intimidation of dire truth.
A moth on the mountain-side settles. Fate whistles,
beyond grief and gluttony and the stale crust of habit,
hovers past the black edge of self. I speak as I've grown
close to the gentle madness, those voices divergent to mine.




�2005 by Sarah Wilson