This the blush—this its draining
this the season’s bluntish rain
on the bluish kiss my seafared
vein and crest in vain so long
with stretch and run in stripling
ruin panting at the bark of moon.
This the bay—this its wailing
kiss the waves that stress that throng
on bruised bark curse the flagging skin
to furl and smith its light so long
in vain the changeless flux to swim
do scales counting fed the loom.
This the stretch—this its failing
how its panting backs of cradle
stick the kissing bruise to taste its
sparrow future—wait so long
embarked with waste of bluish wasting
swallowed days starve out the soon.
By James McKnight