Incrementally
she moves down the slipway
into the murk,
sliding, with the occasional lurch,
not into crystal voyaging
but rust wreck and jetsam,
bilgewater toxic.
She moves from me, this old vessel,
less of the day, earth deprived,
more swallowed by inky sea than ship shaped,
aspects already drowned.
I dip my feet into the brine,
aching to follow,
but they are waterproof
and the buoyancy of health
prevents.
She drifts from shore,
seized by demented rips,
a ship at odds with herself and her elements.
