Clinging to flotsam
(or is it jetsam)
and watching the
ship of foolish dreams
slide slowly in the west

A sudden burst of sun
throws a missed
reflection against
the hull and
leaves me breathless.

The beauty of continual
defeat lies in floating

All hope gone

Pruned and pickled in brine.

Waving at white sails
in the morning

Flapping wind adds
sound to the swell
and the potent,
pungent smell of
layered diesel,
rainbowed over salt