Boats on Land

Throes of vanity will leap
up to smother a face
in hands. Leaving behind
boats on water beads to
slide down a barely
breathing facade. The
ablution of faces is a
reductive past-time; with
boats losing function and
face losing itself. The
subsequent drying is a
tragic archaelogy of
what was consigned to be
forgotten. Water is a
life-taker in the wrong
hands. It is true. Oceans
in those cradles drown out
faces, leaving behind in wrinkle
contoured valleys (blemished
now by the absence of
memorials) salt rusted
boats moored as the
identifying mausoleums.
Of fishermen and suits.