Hunt
The days,
like wooden bows of ships,
are lost against the silence
in between
the darkness and the sea.
And in the red-lined throats
of passing gulls
I seek the night
and hunt you down,
where dreams invade the silent forms of man.
I look for you,
like hungry fingers seek the clay -
like breath draws blood
from paper cuts
and restless shards of words.
The days,
like traitors to a common cause,
find silent winter graves.
My life, my love, my stubborn song:
now all of my remains.