Life on the Edge
You came back disheveled
and haggard, your eyeballs red
from gazing at the bright lights
of a week-long bender. Somehow
out in that fog-ridden seascape
the tide came in
and brought you home. We seem
like an island, but the bright lights
keep calling your name, the same bars
keep obscuring the sun
high over our austere atoll
and the sundial in the graveyard
turns round upon its small pedestal,
where, sheltered in rows of cold marble,
a stone statue of the Blessed Virgin
kneels in prayer.
No comments:
Post a Comment