(The cabin;by the stern windows;
Ahab sitting alone,and gazing out.)

fathoms under the salt planks
your walfish waits in tide and ebb
and you are distilled too,

into something like love,
the personal chase of two waves
waiting in the sea, trapped,

his white brow throws a squall,
eight bells, there are holes in the sky;
not yet, not now, next

you are a prisoner in
walls and floors, you drop
unaided from ceilings

the windows in your eyes
are cool and thoughtful

at night you slightly
push doors, or slide
over scented beams,

the wax on cupboards
neatly traces your weightless hands
but you give me no relief
when I am down

My book of poems fails to hide
the space in front of my face.

The window frames the garden.
Das Stillleben. The rain levels
the earth, no longer clotted and rude.

It is time to see the frost washed out.
Dripping glass.Old eyes. Rain.

skidding around corners on a single leg
you escape fat-cat sleep and hide under carpets
behind doors you are hinted at

so when a door hanging like an anchor
sways in the slight breeze of suggestion
my face turns outwards and drags me

to the window; there are lights behind the trees
maybe refugees of love with hot breath
perhaps morning breakers in stiff clothes
but certainly not the water inside my eyes

Look...say the stars
What do you see ?
I thought there was only one
What do you feel ?
Who do you think you are ?
Aton's chair, the holy place
The highest in the sky

Gutted and fake, half man,
Called into line and tainted,
Your cold-birds have fled.
A coughing horse tires at your side.

My steps are out of season,
More a summery walk along banks.
The fox-trails are closed with web,
Lost with intent, the child's first angst
Hides in strikes of green.

Holy Mary Mother of God,
This disclaimer will not help.

a big fat white god
hollows out my warmth
the tracks and steps
follow me, a ship
slowed by frost

like a heavy horse i breath ice
dancing at my door

this while stops
and you are not here