Jayne Fenton Keane: poem

LIKE SAILORS

never flinch. frozen. in an attitude of masts

vertical in a seam of time
remembering lovers. i find comfort
beneath a surface of routine
interwoven with twisting favours,
hidden. unopened nylon confetti blooms

push breath back into photographs.
spend days watching myself turn bronze
as sepia twirls, in a language of cyclones
and I taste the storms on my tongue.

vertical. out of focus. shivering
on an edge of wind. awaiting tidy
ripples of fatigue. the comfort
of routinely heading for shore
only to be pulled back. the current
a prussian blue mistress. every night

feeding on a plate of gutted crustaceans.