Above the throaty voice
of a creaking dock
wind-swept masts ring hollow.
Their bare poles sing
in perfect pitch like choir rows of
forgotten children
in the harbor.  
Land miles of sky
between us, his hands feel
only seconds

from my skin.
And always his eyes,
lipreading
coffee bean moons of brown;
their slow liquid passage
from behind the crisp
white sails.

The night is clean and deep,
transparently blue; and I sit
cross-legged in the window seat
in envy of the square-rigged
canvas sails,
islands of sea miles away.

03 aug 04
M Madison