Buried Treasures
my sailing dayslay numbered now
I stroll the weathered decks
eyes strain
to gain worn focus
of yard arms’ silhouette
diamonds form
a frigid sky
our wake bleeds
silver streaks
across a calm horizon
and we pray to god
she keeps
an untied line
flaps in the breeze
tapping out the ancient code
to men who trade
a cozy life
for treasures
of the soul
farewell sea mistress
and sweet illusions
i don’t need
your chests of gold
Somewhere in the middle
of the Atlantic '89