Boats

Your boats sail away from the port,

the water is murky and slick with
rainbows of oil.

Creaking, they travel to the edge of the flat world,

wending beneath the paper-plate rounds of moon and sun.

The boats self-origami -
an implosion of structural beauty as
mast folds to bill and
sail into wing.

At the clean edge of blue where
the ocean falls like
long long wet hair,

they take flight,

leaving me at the docks of my self,
looking at the empty linear horizon
cutting away the sky's skin -

my imagination falling to pieces around my feet,
through the dark wood cracks
to the matt ocean beneath.