Trireme

howl, the ever-piercing
gull-eyed gale-mouthed seagods
fill sail bellies
trireme agrunt
fold again, reach
creaking ankaneal
stinking of acetabulum
peak with time and wear
ghosts tired to know
they’re ghosts
would not be relieved by explanation
paused mid arc these days
in unpoetic graphics
in museums, in miniature
ever exhaling
humours and brumes
golden with old
joys scatter sewn
bones and whim and fate
driven fancies
beneath spray and spume and war

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