The moon scans with one-winked eye
scaling distances ,
dipping light deep into liquid darkness .

White shapes sail late flotsam
of a column stretched tall like pale bodies
the ripples to flicker .

Our thoughts swim unevenly
like that blossomed stone
before the creasing waves.

A truth that is dredged that
the sunken fathom ,
is breathless and cold as the anchor's shadow .
It rusts , dilutes,
dissolves .


© Mav P.