small harbour

color me atavistic
i can fit here beside
these bottles – these knives
open up your lonely eyes
we will not be pardoned by sunlight
instead the valley
of sea salted bones
of those before
who knew the way of kindness
of necessity
you drew them out
and bled them dry
now white washed houses
and well worn shoes
sit collecting dust
in this harbour
wrestling the changing tides
with cotton gloves
and rusted anchors.

M.

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