whiling through blue

shell dreams          

                           fondling

strings

                        flicker from sleeves

a clue a kind of

fooling

                  wood

can ache

like muscle

                  and the pier         is rolling

             .   one grain

on a splinter

                                 piling

             just above

the water line

                               sensing

the next dark swell

                        Who'll remember

how many times

                                 I've floated

         in this sea

© 1973/2007   Phil Johnson