Postcard Lost at Sea

He tells me everything is his now,
the island, the wind that rocks
the wreckage that once was his craft.

The blotches on his face suggest
sun or regret. The word
he hates most is accident.

I hang on to each thread
of his fabrication, a yarn
he wraps around himself.

He had to have power somewhere,
and to get here came by boat
to see if he could leave a wake.

He looks at my clothes and sees a sail.
I tell him I have been here longer.
My words billow in the wind of his eyes.

Copyright © 2005 Wyn Cooper All rights reserved
from Postcards from the Interior
BOA Editions, Ltd.
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission