Drawing Water from a Wraith

                        You, in that heavy metal way of yours,
            with your tongue in your cheek, your thumbs hooking

into those slack pockets. We meet in the
            corners: the crinkles by your eyes, a thumb

                        on the mouth; halfway here, journeying to
            sunlight or ill-lit sky. Vessels in the

night, not unlike figurine touches, half-
            lidded desire, unrealised, except in

                        apparitions I stole from my glances,
            tremulous; their dances in the dream-light;

no longer ships, for a trice—but, rather,
            boards drenched in the wreckage, ripped sails, rocked back

                        against the tide of day. In the dregs, our
            debris: you, in that way of yours. Let this

be the last corner: I keep moving you
            to sickness; I dream of you, to mourning.

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