Undercurrents

 
A long tunnel connects you
to nothingness. Occasionally
the sun lances through pockmarks
punched in the roof. More often


than not, the rain drips in mud, guts
and glory, which they taught us once
at the flotilla academy of disorder,
though graduation comes at the start.


The water rises and your rudder unsticks,
useless in its mono-directional
lament. The sides scrape off in wooden
zests, sour shavings that float, bloated.







Entered in 'dreams' competition.