there is no drowned sailor
here, captain
just a bard steeping his sorrows
in wine
rum,
and beer
and the poetics of heartbreak
can only seem appealing for so long
like a sea captain who does not
know how to be loved
and a foolish bard who does not
know how to stop loving
the bard drinks,
wondering if he is an anchor
and if he is
of what nature
are his hands on the broad
shoulders of the sea captain
a welcomed sort of grounding,
or like being held back?
the ocean always returns
to the sandy shore
in one way or another
and in this way
the bard is like the sea
a constant current
love as stream of consciousness
and whispered into the
hollow of the captains neck
something like a litany, maybe
always too much something or other
to really be a prayer
besides, the bard is not a devout man
only believes in what he can touch
like a battered flask,
the captains long and wind-swept hair,
or the frayed cuff of a long-coat
draped over the bards shoulders
on the coldest of nights
(and, well, if that long-coat
belongs to the captain
then it’s nobody’s business
but theirs)