Tuesday, March 28, 2017

she waits for me

ungloved,
pulling rope. tying
down
the ships
that glide into
harbor.
I blow on the sores,
the rubbed
callouses of work.
the wind is aalted
blue.
long knives that carve
against my skin.
a ship
leaves, another
appears on the horizon.
work is love.
love is work,
at home she waits
for me.
she disagrees.

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