Waterbed
I
sleep on a bed of copper pipes.
Through their interiors, empty of sighs,
rushes the Atlantic Ocean the blanket
the sea breaks a ship, steeled hull,
upon the rocks as preferred;
the captain forgets his destination.
His friend, hat pulled down and coat pulled tight,
waits at the dock far past the hour the ship was due.
Hour after hour water removes layer after layer of wood;
the sawdust coats the beach as a reminder
©
Harley
