08/25: quay’s corner
Aug 26, 2017 · 1 min read
This night I rode you to the top of morn
exactly, sun green-blue above the cranes.
You latched me hard to your own rise, adorned
with hands of ages, mountain ranges, wane
of everything but what you are and will
yourself to be. Come twilight, come to bare
your knees and make your vows, for ill
and for the best of days, you will not spare
yourself to spare yourself the waning day —
come morning, come as you will, let us be.
We fracture as gold spears into the lee
of the quay’s corner, rubric of the sea.
Come, you must, for come you will to us now;
you guide the wayward home and wake the plough.
