Stare at the world,
so oddly marine,
with blue-gray air
that hangs in wet sheets.
The breasting wind in curl,
a wave sensed and half-seen,
the lull-quiet despair.
I move slowly, beat by beat,
carving idly the clean pearl
of moon, breathing the green
stopped life, thoughts unfair
but true, that the heart cheats
its owner. I drown in my defense,
in the poison of the past tense.