The Demeter

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Pristine, silver thing only inches off the water

Like a fog. Walking on an obsidian bay--

What is today but a soon-to-be yesterday?

You regret all those yesterdays anyway.

I breathe the bay air and sip my gin and tonic,

All the chronic liars like a fleet following

You like all those yesterdays, fathering

Your silver face, your obsidian eyes-- their size--

Obscene, sanguine, draining on my waining

Self-control-- my waxing, taxing fear of being alone.

Roll the bones, cast the lots, look forward to what is not

I swear your head is in reverse.

Every night another dies while you sleep tight

In all your dirt and hurt. I hate to say what you deserve

But it's so much more than memory. The hold on the sea,

Obsidian eyes, sweet and beckoning.

The Demeter comes to port, nearly empty, 

But you don't know what that means.

You'll never read this anyway.

You're always so afraid.

Afraid of the sun.