The cobweb ceiling is
drifting slow, as if forgotten
by the cracking waves below,
no threads strung between the glass
and goosefeathers save
the ship's tall, blackened masts
and hammered iron sails.

The boy in twilight overalls
would curl beneath the iron ropes
and shake with his own
treasured loneliness. There he will stay,
drowning in self and the
sweet hiding of the stars.

The seagull perched on the iron hull cries
Morning is rising! Morning comes!
In another world he means:
Little one, little one, watch for the sun.
How it seeps through silkspun clouds
and crashes to the iron cold--
holding us, and burning
such a blinding white
against the crystal sea.