Each ounce of daylight he’d earned
He spent in the throes of a mad ship
Named Delilah. Her crooked masts hung
Inches above the rumbling sea,
Her sheets slave only to the gale.
A cannonball hole to starboard
Ushered storm-spray into his quarters.
His hammock swayed between the drops
Plucking his creased forehead like a mandolin.
Neither storm nor Hell on deck could wake him.
Within his fragile, rounded skull
He lay nestled in the grass by a waterfall—
Its earthly place swallowed by the labyrinth of memory.
A blanket of mist rolled over him on the breeze
As the soft crashing rocked his head
Side to side, starboard to port,
Beneath the crackling thunder of boots.
Delilah listed toward the smothered sunset—
Pitching him through the wound in the hull,
Still cradled in the arms of the riverbank.