Island of Man

the fishing ships are all adrift
sending lips to whip up news
of you.  that's all they do.

   and meanwhile
   on my isle
   my blood is drying

   my eyes are dying
   and i wonder
   when i'll ever see
   some sign of rain.

the ships have left.

on the great fleet Pensées
the world's greatest pitchers are aboard
tossing green glass bottles
out into the blue
searching for you
like mermaid milk cartons
written in a wavy tongue:

     Have you seen this girl?

and i and my stomach
an island adrift
along a mad red-blanket sea.

   and verse-birds fly overhead
   in distant flocks of Courier New.
   never giving rest.  

and should i sink like Atlantis,
deep into the sea and sleep
until the gods be pleased
with the state of you and me?

or drift a while longer
under the clouds
with the font-flocked seagulls
laughing on the beach

and do i dare to watch them
as they boldly eat the peach
that has fallen from the tree?

i know they know no better,
but they will not let me be.

    here i waste and here i wait
    until some lucky, happy date
    when you shall wash ashore

    to sing to me the things
    that men of sea and wax
    have never heard before.