These faithless words
that often slip
the reckless harbor of your lips,
of billowed sail,
all salt and brine,
a ghost on my horizon line.
Bleached skulls that wash upon the shore-
stern warnings one should not ignore.
Feckless currents ebb and flow,
where barnacles and seaweed grow.
There in the breech,
I’ve placed in stow,
my sextant shows the way to go.
The midnight stars,
the Southern Cross,
redeem the foolish
and the lost.
Those who stray
too far off course,
who flounder in your stale remorse,
will linger where they don’t belong
and drown to hear
your siren song.