Streams

The smoke streams away
like tears off a face
at the speed of pain,
flees a rusting hull
which rolls once again
on the rocks. The men
all left. A metal
smokestack yet remains
soaking the deck in
residual warmth.
Instead of ocean
it lies in a plane
of breathing and can
remember a time
when ships formed the bones
of humanity,
skeletons to which
the flesh hung and pulled
and pushed its way up
the descending stairs,
dark driven mountains,
of water rather
than the new winging
with faded fancy
after streams of light.