anchored, in one way or another

there is no drowned sailor

here, captain

just a bard steeping his sorrows

in wine


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)