alone
on your treasure island
a summer princess
splattering
SOS's
in deceivingly neat strings of verse
that many simply look admiringly--
or enviously--
upon.
all along
a dark quilt in the weaving
that you now
sleep on
to continue
an eternal weaving of dreams
regret
cirlicues in strings
spreading as squid ink
dyeing the oceans black
blotting out waves
smooth as gray silk
in dismal 5pm low tide
and we
the rest
are left adrift
lost in all this black.
(For Ana. 1978-2007)
