The Boat

*The Boat*

It's dawn. I walk with

the anvil's sound

forging notches

under the skin, my skin

a legion of warriors

rests. So I'm alone

by my self, I walk the steps

of others, towards the same

boat

the same

city of mornings. It's dawn – my blood

withers at your absence -

I wrap my self in a film of mist and cold. No body

next to me, I lean my face

against the quivers

on the glass – white little flowers

keep falling as rain, you

sew your face with mine, your

hands clasp my hands while wheels

keep turning -

the boat's engine

plows the water

methodically forgetting, dissolving

time's froth -

past, present, future -

into one

flowing

river. Its mouth

sets the limit , your breath

wets my chest. Outside the sparkle of

light bends the distant silhouette

of bridges and towers. Your curls

cuddle up to my neck – no body hears

the moans

breaking through miles of

liquid material – invading

the absence

of you. Under my skin

a legion of lovers. The frothiness

at the shoreside -

just a way of saying

the boat.

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho